


Pierce

by trashyeggroll



Series: Worth the Fall (ThunderGrace Boxing AU) [1]
Category: Black Lightning (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Anissa is Adonis, Creed - The Movie, F/F, New Orleans, because LBR same nerd jock energy, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 46,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18562609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashyeggroll/pseuds/trashyeggroll
Summary: Anissa's been fighting every day of her life, whether it’s bullies in group homes or a family that doesn't support her dreams. When she moves to pursue a boxing career full time in New Orleans, Louisiana, she convinces family friend and retired world champion Peter Gambi to help her reach the top.akaThe ThunderGrace/Creed AU that nobody asked for.





	1. Jefferson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows pretty closely to the movie for the first chapter, and then expands out from there; the crux of a lot of Creed’s (the movie) second half is storyline surrounding Rocky, but this is fanfic and we're going hard in the paint for ThunderGrace instead.

**Prologue**

_FREELAND, CALIFORNIA_

The Freeland Youth Detention & Correctional Facility is everything one might expect. Beige cinderblock walls, keycard doors at the end of every hall and new space, and vinyl floor tiles, marked with red and blue lines that the girls housed there are meant to follow. Most days go off without a hitch. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and then lights out. But by lunchtime this particular Monday, it becomes clear that this is not going to be one of those days.

The Code Blue comes over the loudspeaker and alarms squawk on all sides. Girls lined up in the hallway take immediate positions on the floor, against the wall, as some of the guards take off running towards the mess hall. Even through two doors, the sound of girls egging on a fight bounces off the barren walls.

Despite the chaos, Anissa knows she has just seconds to do what needs done. Guards are trying to get the audience under control as she swings and jabs at Stephanie, a girl two years older than her and twice as mean. She lands a solid, crunching strike along the tall girl’s cheek, and then Stephanie leverages her size and tackles Anissa to the ground, knees bracketing her ribcage to pin her in place. One, two, three, four punches rock across her skull, blurring the edges of her vision. When the older girl stops to take a breath, she surges up, knocking Stephanie to the floor and switching their positions. Anissa lands as many blows as possible, growing satisfied as red blossoms across her enemy’s face, and then a guard is hauling her up and off of the other girl, legs swinging free.

“Come _on,_ let me go,” snarls Anissa as the guard easily carries her away. She spits a glob of blood on the ground. They hated it when you did that. Her feet brush the first stair on the way up to the solitary cells, and she rolls her eyes at the feeling of cotton against plastic. “At least let me get my shoes, damn.”

 

* * *

 

Although the idea resurrects some lingering demons along the lines of “class guilt,” Lynn Stewart has the fleeting thought that she must not look like most women who enter this facility. The guards have a visceral, visible reaction when they set eyes on her, falling over themselves to ask if she needs any help or directions. She hopes they extend all mothers the same fawning respect, but doesn’t comment on the display as she signs the visitor list and is cleared to enter an area just outside the secure space.

“Lynn,” greets the senior case manager she’s been talking to over the phone, smiling a tired, but earnest smile.

“Hello, ma’am,” she returns, accepting her license back through the tray from the security officer behind the bullet-proof window.

The case worker seems to be holding something on her tongue, the slight discomfort showing in her posture. “Sorry for the delay. Anissa got in a fight today, and she’s in holding. If you want to see her, we’re going to have to go up to that area. She’s a good kid. She just…”

“Fights.”

“All the time.” The brunette sighs, looking relieved at Lynn’s calm reaction. She has a look that one might call “mousy”, but Lynn can’t fault her, and she certainly doesn’t envy the monumental responsibility of the woman’s job.

They head upstairs to the holding cells, and Lynn is struck with how little difference there is between this place and adult prisons she’s seen. Young women, kids really, peer out of slotted windows at them as they pass, and most of them just look… blank. Glassy-eyed and defeated. It makes her heart clench and her hands tighten to fists. She’s led to a door marked 8106 in block numbers, and the case manager opens it. A burgeoning preteen with braids is standing in a green sweatshirt and khaki pants (no shoes), leaning against a bunk and facing away from the door.

“Anissa.”

At her name, the girl finally turns, and Lynn forgets to keep walking. Her knees give an ominous tremble. The eyes looking back at her are painfully, deeply familiar, swirling with a fire and stubbornness she knows too well.

“Come on in,” encourages the case manager, stepping to one side. To Anissa, she says, “I’d like you to meet Mrs…”

Lynn stops the woman with a hand on her elbow, hoping she doesn’t feel the way her fingers are shaking. That’s not how she wants this to go. “Could we have a moment, please?”

“Sure. I’ll be right outside.” And with a polite smile, the woman leaves. The door stays open.

Anissa looks away from her as soon as the case manager is gone, shoving one hand into her khakis while the other flexes nervously where it rests on the bunk, like she’s readying to throw a punch. Lynn sits down, hoping it puts the child somewhat at ease as she opens conversation on the girl’s turf, “Why were you fighting?”

“I’m not going to another group home,” growls Anissa, still not looking at her. She tenses as she says it, as if to convey that she’ll back those words up with action.

“I’m not from a group home,” Lynn replies evenly, keeping her eyes trained on that tense jawline.

“You a social worker?”

“No, I am not a social worker.”

That seems to give Anissa pause, and though she doesn’t look quite convinced, the girl turns her head to deliver the original answer: “Bitch said something about my ma, so I beat her ass.”

It’s progress, however small. Lynn winces in sympathy at the unsaid part of this tale, which is the reason she got a phone call from a public defender, desperate to help a smart kid with no one left who wanted her. A child whose birth certificate didn’t list a father, but whose long-deceased mother had left traces of a connection to a very well-known man. After receiving a picture and the mother’s name, Lynn arrived to the facility as quickly as she could, but she knows in her gut it won’t make up for what this child has already suffered through and lost.

She takes a deep breath before saying, “I’m sorry about your mother. I know what it’s like to lose someone, how deep of a cut it is. When your father died, I was angry for a very long time. I hurt myself, pushed family away.”

Anissa’s jaw clenches again, and she declares in the tone of a universal truth, “I don’t have a father.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, I don’t have a father.”

“That’s not true.” It’s now or never. Lynn has seen enough; she doesn’t hesitate. “He passed before you were born, but you _had_ a father.”

“You knew him?”

“He was my husband.” The woman pauses, lets the news sink in; it seems like so much for such a young thing. As they’ve been talking, Anissa has been slowly relaxing her guard, her shoulders and back, looking more curious by the second. Her hand remains balled tightly in a fist, but Lynn is proud of the girl for the way she seems to quickly digest and accept more information about her father than she’s known her whole life. Lynn sees the spark in her eye heralding the next question, and she goes on: “Anissa, I would like very much if you would come and stay with me. Do you think you’d wanna do that?”

They study each other for what feels like several minutes, but is probably only a few seconds. While her daughter, Jennifer, certainly looks like her father, smiles like him and has his laugh, most people say that Jennifer mainly takes after her mother.

Anissa? It’s almost unsettling, the cheekbones, the nose, the broad shoulders. But more importantly, the way she’s looking back at Lynn, clearly having just suffered a somewhat serious fight and facing a new unknown, and her defiant eyes are somehow filled with something along the lines of hope.

Anissa unclenches her fist. “What was his name?”

 

* * *

  

**Chapter 01: Jefferson**

_TIJUANA, MEXICO_

Anissa fucking hates fighting here. The border jump is annoying enough, from the long lines to being constantly hassled by Border Patrol and occasionally paying out some of her winnings in bribes just to make them shut up.

But because that’s where she can actually get in a match with a moderately well prepared opponent, she’s been going every other weekend for almost a year. She’s 15-0, pulling about $2,000 per fight. It’s nothing, really, especially once she’s deducted the cost of travel and the entry fee, compared to her salary working as a PA in a family clinic. The head of the practice is, of course, a friend of Lynn’s, though they both insisted up and down that that had nothing to do with the job offer.

She likes helping people, of course, but… Fights are better than sex to Anissa.

When she steps into the ring, all of that melts away. She forgets about the looks Lynn gives her when she finds her with a black eye or busted lip. She doesn’t remember to be worried about whether she filed a chart in the right spot, or if she made the right diagnosis that morning. She’s just her body, arms and hands and legs united by her force of will, and together, they obliterate each woman who steps into the ring opposite her corner. Her weekend coaches always insist she has a shot of tequila before every fight—and with an undefeated record, why give it up?—but what really makes her head swim is the rush of adrenaline swirling through her veins, her heart thudding in her ribcage like a war drum. She’s completely free, in her element and in total control of every move. Whatever happens next is on her.

Tonight, her opponent is in her early thirties, and something about the calmness in her energy tells Anissa that she’s been fighting for a long, long time. Her shorts and compression bra are yellow, her gloves green, and she’s got a bit of a frenzied tilt in her eye as the bell rings.

It’s over in thirty seconds. They spend the first ten or so dancing around each other, testing reach and strength, reaction time. Anissa lets one jab glance off of her chin to see the follow-through, but the woman is still in test mode, and it barely registers on the pain scale. In the second ten, they’re trading real blows, combinations flying, and then the woman lunges for a cross. Anissa slips one foot to the side, pivoting out of the way, and finishes the next ten seconds with a series of punishing body blows and the final hook to send the woman crumpling to the ground. She tries to get up, but the count is done.

This is the second week in a row she’s won by KO in less than a minute, and there’s barely a scratch on her. She needs more. She’s _ready_ for more.

 

* * *

 

_LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA_

Back in the ol’ USA on Monday, she’s not quite at peace with her decision even as she’s typing up a letter of resignation on her clinic computer. Her eyes track the words, but don’t really process them until the sixth time she’s gone over a sentence. _...appreciate the opportunities and companionship…_ Anissa would not say she had made friends in this place, but she didn’t really have them _outside_ the clinic either, to be fair. Between running ten miles a day, lifting before and after work, and her weekend getaways—who would have the time? (Her restrictive boxer’s diet didn’t help in a nation obsessed with indulgent brunches, either.)

When her boss walks by on his way to his office, Anissa gives him a few minutes to get settled before popping her head in the door.

“Come on in,” greets Dr. Cayman, tilting his head curiously as she shuffles to one of the blondewood chairs in front of his desk. “What’s up? Whatcha got there?”

Before she can lose her nerve, Anissa just hands him the letter, and then watches his face as he reads it. His mustache twitches a couple times before he looks up with knitted brows. “You’re joking, right?”

Anissa shakes her head and can’t quite meet his gaze.

“We’ve been talking about your own exam room. Your name on the building directory. You get this close to what you wanted, and you’re quitting?”

“Maybe it was what I wanted… but, I think that was a long time ago. This just isn’t for me.”

“What’re you going to do next, then?”

“Find something that makes my heart sing.”

After gathering her personal items from the clinic, she spends the rest of her day driving around and coming to terms with her decision (including maybe more than one stop for tacos), and the sun is going down when Anissa pulls her Mustang to the gate and punches in the code, 4539. The wrought metal squeaks and whines as the gate swings back from her headlights, and she pulls her restored classic in the massive eight-car garage of the Pierce house. She parks between Lynn’s burnt orange Range Rover and her half-sister’s sleek black BMW, eyeballing the way Jen’s somehow left the two-door coupe crooked.

The two women to whom those cars belong are in the kitchen, busily fluttering around dinner, when she steps into the house.

“Hey, Ma,” she greets as brightly as she can, and Lynn’s sharp eyes are immediately focused on her, narrowing slightly.

“Anissa! Grab a bowl and make yourself some of this,” says Lynn as she’s spooning gumbo into her own bowl. “You’re home late. Celebrating, I hope?”

“Celebrating?”

“Movin’ up—getting your own exam room and stake in the practice. You did talk to Dr. Cayman about that today, right?”

“Yeah, but um—“

“Did they hire a nurse for you? This is a big deal. I’m very proud of you.”

Anissa has to look away from Lynn at that. The guilt makes her stomach churn. From across the table, Jen is pinning her with a knowing frown, and the older sister can only hope she won’t rat her out right now. Being close with her half-sister has been one of the most fulfilling relationships of her life, but Jen also knows when to use some of those secrets to her advantage—especially when Anissa won’t be able to do anything but let her get away with it. She wants to get it over with and just say what she’s doing, but Anissa’s just not ready to lose the warm, proud look in her adoptive mother’s eyes… not until she’s made some more arrangements, to make sure this sticks.

They finish dinner over relatively pleasant conversation. In her senior year of high school, Jen is applying to what sounds like a dozen colleges and universities, and not a single one of them is close enough to home for Lynn’s liking. Anissa suspects her little sister will stay in-state, and there’s something about the way she talks about Stanford that makes her eyes sparkle. At least that’ll be relatively quick flight away for their mother. Her status as local track and field legend and perfect grades mean there’s a good chance Stanford will work out, and the thought gives Anissa a bit of peace in her own choices. Lynn took her in all those years ago out of both love for a child in need and a sense of duty to her family, including her husband’s other child—her daughter’s sister. But now, they were headed towards leaving her by herself for the first time in decades. It wasn’t a nice feeling.

After they’ve cleared the table and Lynn has moved to the living room for the nightly news, Anissa and Jen stand at the kitchen sink, scrubbing and loading the dishwasher.

She can _feel_ Jen gearing up to break the silence and still almost winces when it happens: “So… I thought you were going to quit the clinic today.”

“I did,” mutters Anissa as she scrubs tomato sauce from a white bowl with as much defensiveness as she can. “I just can’t stand to break her heart.”

“Well… unless Cayman is open to you crawling back to him, I think you’re going to _have to_ stand breaking her heart.” Jen gives her a sideways look, pausing over the open dishwasher door. “And it’s only going to hurt more if she hears it from someone else first.”

“Tomorrow,” promises the older sister softly. “I gotta check something out.”

When that’s finished and the women go their separate ways for the night, Anissa heads to her basement “cave”, as Jen calls it. She has a normal bedroom upstairs, the one she grew up in, but ever since graduating high school, Anissa’s been slowly turning the huge, two-bedroom, one bath and a kitchenette basement into her own personal apartment. It’s the only space in the house with enough room for her to move around like she needs to, and the projector system gives her the opportunity to train alongside videos in life size.

She sinks onto the suede sectional and uses the unwieldy AV system remote to get to YouTube. No sooner has she pecked out the letters J-E than YouTube know exactly what she wants, and she clicks the Suggested Search term: Jefferson Pierce.

JEFFERSON PIERCE TKO COMPILATION (9:44)

FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT: JEFFERSON PIERCE AND MUHAMMAD ALI INTERVIEW (7:12)

Black Lightning v TKO Tailor - Heavyweight Legends Rematch (1976, NOLA) (30:03)

It’s the third video that gets projected up on the wall, the room immediately filling with the dulled sound of a roaring crowd and excited introductions from the announcers. There are whole podcasts dedicated to the context and drama of this fight, even an FX miniseries called “Titans” where her dad is played by a beefed up Daniel Kaluuya, and Peter Gambi by Henry Cavill. But as far as Anissa is concerned, nothing holds a candle to the real thing, no matter her conflicted feelings about the man who’s currently squaring up on the right side of the wall.

Jefferson’s arms are like tree trunks, his jab reach alone seemingly crossing half the length of the mat. He looks young, strong, and his hands are lightning fast, hence the nickname. Peter Gambi does too—he’s leaner than Jefferson, slightly shorter, but almost incomprehensibly good at taking punches. Just twenty seconds into the match, and the two men are laying into each other full force, the _thunk_ of gloves connecting with bone and flesh clearly audible between the overlaid commentary, even on the practically ancient recording. It’s a slugfest.

Anissa’s feet are carrying her towards the wall before long, and she squares up against the shadow Gambi with Black Lightning superimposed over her shoulders. She starts ducking and weaving first, slipping into the rhythm, and then her hands are flying, jabs, hooks, cuts, while the announcers’ voices are starting to rise, excited. This dance, she knows by heart.

 

* * *

 

The final question mark to explore is in the form of the Green Light Gym. Even though she uses her birth mother’s last name, Washington, head trainer Latavius “Lala” Johnson clocked her for Jefferson Pierce’s daughter the second time she came in asking for a coach. The giant poster of her father on the wall for reference didn’t help. Lala’s father had helped train Jefferson during his early pro days, and the family was milking the Pierce name for all they could get. Not that Lala hadn’t actually successfully trained a few world class fighters over the years. Some of them were still calling his gym home today.

Much like the mansion serving as her home, Anissa feels both wildly out of place and painfully close to the gym, full of burly men knocking the shit out of vinyl training bags and jumping rope. The rhythmic sounds are broken up with the occasional shout, and that helps Anissa find Lala immediately. He’s leaned over the ropes on a corner of the gym’s main sparring ring, watching one of his pro-am fighters like a hawk.

As part of her plan, she’s already wrapped her hands, and the pressure as she flexes her fingers helps steel her to handle Lala’s inevitable bullshit. She holds out her duffel bag of fight winnings, stacks and stacks of Mexican bills, until Lala looks down.

“Fifteen fights. Fifteen knockouts,” Anissa explains casually.

“In Tijuana? Please.” Lala tries to turn back to his fighter, but Anissa moves closer into his space. “That’s barroom brawling.”

“Well, I’m all in anyway,” she presses. “So I figure we can start local, and then we—“

_“We?”_

“Yeah, I was—“

“Anissa,” Lala barks her name, brows furrowing. “You see the fighters in here? These boys come in here because this is how they survive, not because they got bored one day in their Barbie Dream mansion. They gotta fight for life. It’s kill or be killed, people die in there. Your _daddy_ died in the ring.”

“These _boys,_ huh?” Anissa can’t help but shoot back, jaw clenching. “And my father’s business or my mother’s house have nothing to do with me. Train me.”

“No. I’m not training you, and I’m gonna make sure nobody’s training you in this town.” At the fight he must see rising in her eyes, he turns to yell across the gym, “We’re makin’ chances at the Green Light Gym. We’re not dancin’, we’re not singin’, we fightin’. You struggle every day, you fight for somethin’? You damn right.”

“Hey, hey,” Anissa calls, since everyone is already quieted down anyway, and Lala is in full stubborn ass mode. She ducks under the ropes and dances away from trainers grabbing after her, adding as she holds up her keychain, “These are the keys to my Mustang. All _you_ gotta do is land one clean headshot. Who’s up?”

The fighter already in the ring turns around, his expression curling into a smirk. “What I gotta put up for it, Princess?”

Anissa flashes to the man’s record. She knows all of the pro-ranked locals by heart.

**ROY HARPER, “ARSENAL” | 12-1-0**

**8 WINS BY KNOCKOUT**

**#6 RANKED MALE LIGHT MIDDLEWEIGHT IN THE WORLD**

He’s certainly not in her weight class, but they’re about the same height. Good enough for her.

“Put up your hands, that’s it. You’re a pro, right?” she snarls, leaning down to pull her mouthguard and gloves from her bag.

“No-no-no-no,” Lala is saying, waving her back over to the side. “You’re about to get the shit knocked out of you, girl. This ain’t right, Princess.”

“Don’t call me girl, or Princess,” barks Anissa before using her teeth to tighten the velcro on her gloves. The spark of rage at the patronizing balls of it all sends a red haze over her thoughts, and she thumps her gloves together as she turns to Harper.

“No headgear?”

She shakes her head, and they begin to circle. “And don’t hold back. I’ll knock you into next week.”

“It’s on you,” he mutters, in the same patronizing tone the Border Patrol agents make when she’s headed into Mexico.

 _This is for calling me Princess_ is the last thought she has before four punches end it. Harper throws two jabs, which she easily ducks, and then a 1-2 combo to his chin knocks the man flat on his ass. Anissa’s veins surge with adrenaline and victory, and she whirls on Lala to yell, “He’s a killer, though—right, Lala? He’s a _killer.”_ And she can’t stop herself from milking this invincible feeling, knocking her gloves together as she goes on, voicr rising, “Where were you when I was in group homes, huh? Did _you_ miss a meal? Nah, I didn’t think so. Which one of your killers is next?”

“I’m next,” announces a new voice, and some of that bravado leaves Anissa in a rush as the woman steps forward. She’s got blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, with sharp blue eyes that are fixed on Anissa, “If you boys are done playing with her.”

**EMILY BRIGGS, “LOOKER” | 32-0**

**23 WINS BY KNOCKOUT**

**2016 OLYMPIC BRONZE**

**#2 RANKED POUND FOR POUND FEMALE BOXER IN THE WORLD**

Looker is a _real_ professional, the best fighter the gym’s had since Jefferson Pierce—or she would be called that, if people took female boxers seriously. In reality, Lala treats her more like a sideshow. Anissa takes a few steadying breaths, and then nods. Despite her instinctive sense of camaraderie for a fellow female boxer, she is 100% okay with the idea of throttling the older woman at this very moment.

Anissa puts on her headgear, ignoring Lala when he makes a smug comment about it. Her opponent is still staring straight at her as her team finishes adjusting her gloves, and when Anissa holds up a glove for a sportsmanlike pre-game bump, Looker just shakes her head.

The bell rings, and the trainers quickly duck out of the ropes as the boxers approach the center of the ring. Anissa’s had a few minutes to overthink this, and she doesn’t like the rattled feeling in her gut as they begin trading jabs—but there’s no backing out now. Looker’s got her on the defensive, backing up and backing up, but she has a moment of personal pride when she ducks a three-punch combo and pivots, taking herself out of danger of the ropes.

Except Looker is a professional, and her footwork is par none, so she nails Anissa with a cross before she’s even fully regained her footing. The blow is so forceful that she swears her skull rings like a bell through the headgear.

It’s the clean headshot Looker needs to take the Mustang, but it goes without saying that this fight isn’t going to end that easily, and they continue moving. Anissa is feeling better about her chances right after delivering a solid body shot to the contender, and then Looker nails her in the chin with another brutal hook that has her entire head snapping to one side. The spike of pain knocks the breath from her lungs, and she never quite gets it back, but manages to stay upright through another twenty seconds or so—until a final uppercut sends her sprawling on the mat, vision tilting and bursting with black fireworks as she gasps for breath.

Her arms and legs refuse to cooperate when she tries to get them under her. As Looker mockingly waves the keys to her beloved ride in her face, she literally has no choice but to accept the defeat.

Lala’s voice is smug in her ear again, from the side of the ring: “See? I tried to tell you, but you don’t listen. Gotta learn things the hard way, huh Princess?”

Despite how badly she wants to sock him in the teeth for that, she is reduced to just trying not to throw up all over the mat.

The fight leaves her with a burst vessel in her eye and seriously wounded pride. She knows it looks ghastly, and Jen’s startled shout when she sees her at home doesn’t help.

“Anissa, are you _serious?”_ hisses the younger sister, almost reaching up to touch her temple. “Jeez, is your eye gonna fall out?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” mutters Anissa as she pushes the hand away from her face.

“Mom’s gonna have a conniption.” Jen’s eyes dart around the room, and then seem to settle on their target. “What about this?”

Anissa winces when Jen sets the sunglasses over her ears, but there’s no sense in objecting. Might as well give it a try.

Ultimately, it takes Lynn no more than thirty seconds to take the sunglasses back off, and Anissa’s heart clenches at the devastation that spreads across her face.

“I quit my job,” she blurts, fruitlessly. It doesn’t even phase Lynn.

“Where did you get that? Mexico?”

“It’s not so bad—“

“Not so bad? I oughtta knock you out myself.” Lynn’s volume spikes, and Anissa could pretty much recite the speech that follows, for as many times as she’s heard it: “Do you know how many times I had to stitch your father back together? Carry him up these stairs, because he couldn’t walk? Wipe his ass for him, because he couldn’t use his hands?”

“I know, Ma, it’s just—“

“Is that what you want? No, you want brain damage. You want so much brain damage that you can’t form a sentence, can’t recognize your own family.”

“I can get hurt doing anything.”

“Jefferson didn’t get hurt, he got _killed._ People get _killed.”_ Lynn pauses to calm herself, her eyes brimming with tears. “I didn’t take you in so you could go backwards, Anissa. You’re _better_ than this.”

That almost breaks her. She comes just shy of calling it all off, of instead asking her mom to see if she can get her job back to the clinic, her own exam room or no. But that’s not Anissa’s way, and a lungful of cool air brings her resolve back into full strength. She keeps her voice steady: “Well, I’m leaving soon, for Louisiana. I’m going to fight and train full time, and I wanted to tell you face to face.”

Lynn wipes at her cheeks and sounds exhausted when she replies, “Anissa… You’re your father’s daughter. You’re a part of him. That doesn’t mean you have to _be_ him.”

Anissa clenches and unclenches her jaw. “I’ll call you.”

“Listen, you wanna be in somebody’s ring? You don’t have to call.” With that, Lynn walks away, up the stairs, and Anissa sees Jen peeking out of her room, her eyes red and tears already shining on her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

_NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA_

Even with her savings from a six figure position for the last few years, Anissa barely finds a place that won’t wipe her assets before she even gets started. She ends up mostly pleased with the two bedroom, one bathroom apartment in a new condominium, built since Katrina rotted the house that had been there before. The walls are annoyingly thin, and sometimes, when it’s completely quiet in her apartment and others, she can hear someone sneeze as clearly as if they were in the next room. It’s not often quiet, though, neither in the building nor on the streets below, but she supposes she should’ve anticipated that in the Big Easy.

Anissa doesn’t spend much time decorating, but she does tape pictures of Lynn and Jen to the wall in her living room. Motivation. She’s not just chasing self-harm, not on some self-sacrificial campaign, and one day they’ll see it. Boxing is what she thinks about from the moment she wakes up until the last minutes before sleep, and she knows she has what it takes to be great, if only someone would open a door.

And that’s why she’s in New Orleans. It’s the city of the legendary Peter Gambi, the “TKO Tailor”. He co-owns the almost equally esteemed Tailor’s Gym, but word online for years has been that Gambi never shows his face there anymore.

Instead, Anissa finds reviews of a small, classic French restaurant owned by none other than “Pete G”, quietly, without even a Facebook Page or Twitter feed. The locals seem to be trying to keep it under wraps, if not Gambi himself. Anissa makes it her first stop, arriving exactly five minutes before closing. The hostess needs a fair amount of sweet talking to get over her initial annoyance, but eventually, she concedes that Gambi is in the kitchen, helping close out the night.

After the last guests leave, the hostess directs Anissa to wait in the main dining area, which features tables for about twenty seats, everything decked out in simple white linens. Clean wine glasses have been set upside-down for the morning crew to right when the time comes. The air smells like savory meats and bread, and Anissa’s stomach rumbles, but she’d been too afraid she might throw up during this conversation to eat.

If Gambi is trying to downplay his connection to this restaurant, he’s doing an exceedingly poor job of it—the walls are covered in iconic Gambi memorabilia, including a 12x24 print of the first fight between him and Black Lightning. Anissa lingers over it, cursing the pull behind her eyes as she stares. Jefferson’s signature is scribbled into the margin over his own head, and the accompanying message says: _“The thrill of the fight.”_

When Peter Gambi appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on a wet rag, Anissa has to hold in a breath against her fight or flight response. When he spots her, she lets out a huff and blurts, “This is from the tenth round of the first fight, right?”

“Good eye,” returns the old man cautiously.

“I heard about a third fight between you and Jefferson, behind closed doors.” Anissa tries to smile. “That true?”

“How’d you hear about that?”

“Who won?”

Gambi’s eyes narrow, the wheels in his head turning behind them. “It’s kind of a secret, hence the closed doors. What’d you say your name was?”

“Anissa.”

“Anissa. Can I help you? The hostess said you, uh, had a question for me?” he rumbles, his voice a little more slurred, but also exactly how it sounds in all his interviews. He’s in his sixties now, with gray hair and a thick mustache, and while Anissa can see the facial paresis around his left eye, obviously a long term consequence of his career choice, his eyes still look quite alert, and his body seems strong. He begins picking up mahogany chairs, setting them with impressive delicacy seatside-down on the tables.

“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about training me.”

“Training you? At what?”

Anissa sighs, trying to keep the annoyance off her face and out of her voice. “I’m a boxer.”

“Oh. Oh! Of course.” Gambi’s cheeks redden, and he clears his throat. “I, uh, don’t do that stuff anymore. Not because you’re a girl. Just, at all.”

“No time like the present to reconsider. I need someone to take a chance on me.”

There’s a long, painful pause. “Sorry, I just don’t do that stuff anymore.” The old man avoids her gaze. “Getting late. I’m gonna close up.”

She shifts the topic back, desperately hoping to jog the his nostalgia nerve. “How good was he?”

“Black Lightning?” Gambi pauses over the last chair, and his expression drops slightly. “He was the perfect fighter. Perfect combination of strength, speed, and smarts. But he also never fought dirty, and he used his name for good. It was needed back in those days and a brave thing to do. The perfect boxer and a great man. Never be anyone like him.”

Anissa’s throat is tight, and she wishes one of those cups had water in them. “So how’d you beat him?”

“Time. Time always takes down the undefeated. Now, uh, it’s getting late—“

“So when your trainer died, Jefferson came to you, right? Took you to LA, trained you, helped you get back to being world champion?”

This makes Gambi finally meet her eyes. “How… do you know all this?”

“How do you think?” She jerks a thumb at the legendary bout portrait.

“What, you’re like a niece or—“

“He’s my father.” Anissa clenches her jaw. She hates this part, because the simple truth of her life—that Jefferson Pierce is her father, and Lynn Stewart is not her mother—causes so much strife in those who learn it. She watches helplessly as the predicted emotions play across Gambi’s timeworn face.

“No, he’s not your father. His daughter’s name is Jen.”

“Call Lynn. She’ll tell you.”

“Lynn Stewart? His wife?”

He almost looks startled at the name, and Anissa sees her opening. She swings hard at the champ. “House number hasn’t changed, believe it or not. Oh wait, you haven’t talked to her since my dad’s funeral. She said you gave a nice speech, though.”

Easier than a 1-2 combo, the words put Gambi on his heels, guilt spilling over his expression. “Yeah. Nice speech.”

“Gambi, I want you to train me.” Anissa takes a step toward him with shoulders set. “I need somebody I can trust in my corner, and who else would be better? You owe me that much.”

The old man sighs, leaning heavily now against a table. “I can tell from the way you talk that you’re smart. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. So why would you want to be a fighter, to live this life? When you don’t _have_ to be? If Jefferson was around, he’d be telling you that too. I’d put money on Lynn saying the same thing. The woman watched the love of her life die, right in front of her.”

“Jefferson isn’t around now, and he never was around for me. I’ve been fighting my whole life. It’s never been a choice.”

“It’s always about a choice, kid. I was there that night too, standing on the edge of the ring. That fight should’ve been stopped. I should’ve stopped it. Maybe you wouldn’t have had such a rough life.”

“Or maybe, Jefferson went down fighting, doing what he loved. Maybe he did _exactly_ what he wanted to.”

Gambi doesn’t take the bait. His brows turn up in sympathy, and his voice softens: “I know for a fact that he’d rather be here right now, talking with you.” The old fighter sighs, glancing between her face and the portrait. “There _is_ a resemblance. Anyway, I’m usually here all the time, so if you’re in the neighborhood, come by if you need something.”

Anissa senses they’ve hit a true stalemate on the subject of training tonight, and she looks at the picture, too. But since she’s already here, she hazards another question: “Since we’re pretty much like family… Who won the third fight?”

Gambi shrugs, but doesn’t hesitate to answer, “He did.”

Later that night, Anissa plugs in her headphones and pulls up HBO Go on her laptop, unable to fall asleep while trying to process her encounter with the old boxer. There’s a new longform trailer for HBO’s upcoming coverage of the next “SuperFight,” Whale v Briggs.

The announcer starts over shots of busy London streets, with blurred people moving in slow motion about their day.

“In boxing, fighters’ origins can endure as the most sacred element of their identity, shaping choices that can change their lives forever.”

Cut to a zooming shot of a face Anissa knows very well—a common shadow boxing partner in the basement. She’s tall and mostly lean, but she’s got arms that look too long for her body, with musculature to rival Serena’s. Her dark eyes stare into the camera with clear challenge as she stands in front of the Palace of Westminster.

“Tori ‘Killer’ Whale was born and raised in a refugee camp in northern Africa. When she was six, her older brother, Tobias Whale, just ten, guided the two siblings on a treacherous path to safe refuge in the United Kingdom. It’s a tale of struggle, displacement, and triumph that resonates deeply with a rapidly changing world, wrought with turmoil on nearly unfathomable scales.”

Underneath the words, HBO shows clips of war and endless columns of people fleeing their homes. Tobias Whale is albino, she knows, and it makes the siblings unmistakable in a picture from one of the camps, hunched under a blanket over sand with thousands of people behind them, all the way to the horizon.

“But for the undefeated pound for pound best female boxer in the world, the end of this odyssey draws closer, sooner than anyone expected. The future is filled with uncertainty, with a seven-year prison sentence looming.”

After a brief clip of Tori being loaded into a British police vehicle, the video cuts to a silhouette of the fighter talking: “I didn’t plan on spending my prime years in a prison cell. I hate letting my brother and my family down.”

The announcer comes back as the orchestral background music begins to swell over a panning shot of a boxing ring, and Anissa immediately recognizes it as the Green Light.

“But what happens when an unstoppable force hits an immovable object? Whale faces an opponent who’s also never been beaten, and who’s boxed her way from the California streets to American stardom. Fighting out of the famed Green Light Gym, with a trainer whose father guided icons of the past, Emily ‘Looker’ Briggs believes with conviction that she’s the sole heir to the throne.”

Anissa’s body tenses like a Pavlovian reaction to the sight of the familiar boxer, the one who knocked her lights out, giving an interview from the gym.

“Whale is going away for a long time,” the blonde is saying as they roll slow-mo B-roll of her workouts. “It’s never how you want to see someone go, but with this fight, I’m ready to prove that I was always going to be number one, Killer Whale or not. It’s _my_ time _now.”_

The video cuts back to Tori. “I’ve never lost. I’ve never even been knocked down. That’s not gonna change, I can promise you that.”

As the soundtrack swells, epic and inspirational, the narrator concludes: “A champion in a dark and extraordinary predicament. A challenger with no interest in a hero’s sendoff. This is 24/7: Whale-Briggs.”

The preview ends, and Anissa closes her laptop. Even though she’d been left drooling on the floor, it feels strangely fulfilling to have been in the ring with Looker and survived. In a way, that’s further than a lot of fighters get in their entire careers. It’s enough of a pleasant thought that she lays back, ready to fall asleep… but a persistent beat rises from below as soon as her headphones are out. She tries for a few minutes to ignore it, but whatever song is playing has those rumbling, deep bass notes that seem like they’re going to shake plaster off the walls.

That’s how Anissa ends up in the hallway in just her sleep shirt and a pair of silk shorts at midnight, hair wrapped. She knocks for a solid minute on the navy blue door of 203, the one directly below hers and the source of the thrumming music, and she’s just about to kick it in when she hears the lock turning.

The boxer almost takes a step back as the door opens, and her stomach does a weird little flip.

Her new neighbor with the too-loud music is, apparently, gorgeous. She’s all high cheekbones and sharp jawline, with almond-shaped brown eyes that narrow at Anissa as she flips a mane of black hair out of her face. A faded, soft-looking flannel with the sleeves cut off drapes over slender shoulders, and after noting impressive full-sleeve color tattoos on the woman’s arms, Anissa can’t stop her eyes from dropping to where the flannel is open almost down to her stomach, with just tanned golden skin underneath. It makes the fighter’s throat tighten, and she snaps her eyes back up to non-creep territory.

“I’m Anissa,” is the only thing that comes out of her suddenly useless mouth.

“Yeah?”

 _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._ If someone held a gun to her head at this exact moment, Anissa would not have been able to remember why she was standing in front of this stunning woman in the late hours of the night. So what she actually says is, “And I just moved in upstairs.”

Her neighbor doesn’t seem the least bit amused by the boxer’s fumbling, crossing her arms and leaning slightly back. “Okay. What can I do for you, Anissa? It’s late.”

Like a light clicking on, the past five minutes are suddenly flooding back, and Anissa says the words as they come: “I can hear your music. Upstairs. Where I just moved in.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know it was that loud.”

“Well, it is.” Anissa starts to relax, feeling a little defensive. She wouldn’t be standing here if not for the woman’s own actions. “I gotta wake up early and workout, so like…?”

The temperature in air shifts like the Titanic hitting a glacier, and Anissa knows she’s somehow made a mistake. “Oh? Yeah? You gotta wake up early and, uh, do your—lifts? Murphys? Keep your body tight? Cool, I’ll turn my music down, you won’t hear a peep, and your muscles can take a power nap.”

Somewhat distracted by the errant CrossFit reference, Anissa almost gets out a “thank you” before the door shuts again, and she hears the lock engage.

The music is louder when it turns back on, and the boxer broodingly goes back upstairs with her tail between her legs. The feeling in her gut is remarkably similar to when Looker knocked her on her ass.

She’ll just go buy earplugs the next day. Better than getting clowned by her neighbor in the middle of the night ever again.

 

* * *

 

The beat from whatever was playing all night is still bouncing around her head as Anissa walks into The Tailor’s Gym, which is essentially the Gambi counterpart to the Green Light Gym, with a giant photo of the famed boxer on the wall and all. The place is in pristine condition and smells almost like a hospital, but with mediocre trap music playing too loudly over the speakers (especially since almost all the fighters have headphones in).

Anissa raises her chin and walks directly to the ring, where up and coming trainer Maseo Yamashiro stands watching his wife spar in a raised ring. The woman glances over at Anissa as she crosses the space, their eyes briefly locking in a fighter’s first test of mettle.

**TATSU YAMASHIRO, “THE KATANA” | 17-0**

**12 WINS BY KNOCKOUT**

**2016 WIBA ROOKIE OF THE YEAR**

**#4 RANKED FEMALE LIGHT WELTERWEIGHT IN THE WORLD**

Maseo eventually notices that Anissa is watching, and he leans on the corner of the ropes as he asks, “Can I help you?”

“Looking to sign up.”

He unabashedly looks her up and down. “Where you from?”

“LA. Freeland.”

“Hollywood,” sing-songs Maseo, humorlessly. “Which gym? I know all those guys.”

“Don’t have one. More self-taught.”

“Self-taught,” he repeats in a tone that suggests the words have a foul taste. After a beat, he goes on in a bored voice, “Most fighters here work themselves out, and it’s twenty bucks a month. I can give you drills, check in on you when I have time.”

Anissa nods, and a few minutes later, she’s on a heavy bag. It’s been a couple weeks since she’s properly worked out, and the New Orleans heat is suffocatingly thick in her lungs, but there’s a kid nearby, no older than eight, landing some mean combos on his bag, and that’s enough of an embarrassment that she gets it together to continue. With one eye on the Katana, she mirrors her training, occasionally taking inspiration from the kid when she needs it.

After hours of hand drills and cardio, Anissa showers and heads home in sweats from head to toe, under a darkened sky. The night is refreshingly cool, though no less muggy than the day, and she idly wonders how long it’ll take to acclimate to this type of heat. Freeland and LA? Practically desert. This place? _Swamp._

The boxer is about halfway back to her complex when a familiar melody nearly stops her in her tracks. There’s a line of people in front of a building across the street, and when they shift just right, Anissa sees a poster in the window. To her mixed surprise and interest, the face looking back at her from the bright green copy paper is her neighbor’s, easily recognizable even under much more makeup than she’d been wearing the night before. The neon sign above the building says “Ruby Red” in a curly font.

Before her brain can overthink it, Anissa’s crossing the street and ducking around people to read what the flier says: “Cosplay Burlesque Night”. _Hmm._

She heads to the back of the line, and it’s only a few minutes before she’s in, honestly surprised the bouncers didn’t object to her outfit or search her bag. The bar inside is cramped and dim, mostly lit by black and neon lights that cast the crowd in an eerie purple glow. At first, Anissa just thinks the people around her in bright outfits are showing typical NOLA flamboyance, but then she realizes that everyone is actually wearing a very specific type of dramatic outfit: superheroes. There’s Supergirls and Wonder Women, plus all manner of X-Men and Batpeople.

Despite the ample distractions, it doesn’t take long at all for her eyes to land on the reason she’d entered the bar.

The mystery neighbor is wearing, of all things, what appears to be a blue body suit, face and hands also painted blue, with a red wig and yellow contacts. Anissa may not be ultra plugged into this type of thing, but even a Luddite such as herself recognizes the Mystique outfit. The naked blue lady version, specifically. Currently, she’s also about fifteen feet off the ground, at the top of a pole.

Anissa’s feet feel like they’ve been encased in concrete as she watches the woman moving to the rolling beat, slowly sliding down the pole with the strength of her legs and core, and the fighter has a momentary out of body experience when yellow eyes lock onto hers. A smile curls over Mystique’s lips, and maybe she’s kidding herself, but Anissa _swears_ the way the woman drags a hand down her stomach, veering to her leg just before reaching the promised land, is just for her. The responding feeling that blooms in her lower belly is familiar, but more intense than she’s expecting, and it grows to a sharp ache as Mystique keeps eye contact throughout the performance, with cosplayers raining tips on the stage.

The lilting smiles sent her way, bright flashes of white teeth against royal blue, are almost better than the suit hugging each contour of the woman’s body. To her embarrassment, her underwear is definitely wet when she shifts her legs to unlock her knees. It’s an effective show.

Anissa can’t work up the nerve to stay after it’s finished, so she hurries home during the next performance—a scantily clad Alice in Wonderland—and instead rubs two out in her bed, falling asleep as soon as the neighbor’s music begins to rise from downstairs again.

 

* * *

 

News breaks of chaos at the Whale v Briggs weigh in, and the boxing world is left scrambling. Down-ticket fights get cancelled one by one, like dominoes falling, and thinkpieces are calling for an end to the showmanship around weigh ins completely. Millions of dollars for those involved go up in smoke, not to mention the strain it must be putting on off-books gambling operations.

Anissa turns up the volume on her TV for a CNN anchor’s summation, “The world of female boxing, a subset of a sport seeking the respect it deserves, has been waiting months for what might’ve been the most-watched women’s bout of all time—but it looks like the fighters couldn’t wait another twenty-four hours, and _respect_ was never part of the plan.”

They cut to footage from the weigh in, which shows about a second of aggro shouting before Looker shoves Tori, and the _crack_ of the Killer Whale’s responding bare-knuckled right cross against the blonde’s face makes Anissa wince in sympathy.

“At the weigh in, Tori ‘Killer’ Whale landed a punch that broke the jaw of Emily ‘Looker’ Briggs, ending the fight before it started, and certainly setting off a lawsuit from the Looker team. Whale fans are left wondering, will they ever see their idol in the ring again?”

After breakfast, the boxer ponders the abrupt power vacuum in the top rankings as she heads down the stairs. When she passes Grace’s door, she feels a pang of guilt over her late night endeavors after the show, and it makes her nearly sprint away when a muffled _thump_ comes from the other side.

The jog to Gambi’s restaurant is uncomfortably warm, and she’s not sure she’ll be able to make it without a stop for water—but she puts her head down as her Wall approaches, and then metaphorically smashes through it. She arrives at Gambi’s wheezing, but feeling at least minorly accomplished.

“Hey, kid,” greets the old fighter, who’s handing crates of alcohol to kitchen staff from the back of a white panel van. “What’re you doing out here this early?”

“Chasing the dream,” jokes Anissa, taking one of the heavy boxes from the man, over his protests. “What’s up with you, Unc?”

 _“Living_ the dream. It’s a big difference. Having a great time.” Gambi huffs and refuses to let her move the next crate. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping maybe you could give me some drills. I _know_ you’re not training, but just write down some drills for me, huh? I’m getting nothing at Tailor’s.”

“Maseo not helping you?”

“He’s busy with his fighter. Just some drills, Gambi. It’s nothing to you, but it’ll really help me out.”

The old fighter’s eyes glint with something akin to pride as he sighs and asks for one of the hostesses to bring him a pen and paper. “You’re relentless. Just like him.”

And it’s really the tiniest of baby steps, the first crack in Gambi’s hard No, but Anissa chest swells with victory anyway. Thirty minutes later, and the retired boxer is looking happier and more excited than she expected as he’s making certain to outline every miniscule detail about his training philosophy and best practices. When they’re finished, Anissa stuffs his list in her pocket and jogs to the gym, feeling lighter than ever.

 

* * *

 

She puts in the hours and heads home again in what’s become a familiar, solitary routine. After changing out of sweats into a pair of black leggings and a tank top, her tiny win with Gambi inspires her to take another long shot.

Anissa puts her phone on speaker as she scrolls through the news on her laptop, and after several rings, Lynn’s voice crackles through the speaker: _“This is the number for Dr. Lynn Stewart. Please leave a brief message, or send me a text for a quicker reply.”_ The subsequent beep is shrill in the small space, but she rambles out a message that she hopes gets across her feelings, and then flops back on the bed. It’s only a few minutes until the music is picking up from downstairs, and Anissa makes her next bold move for the day.

She knocks gently on the door marked 203 this time, and it still takes longer than seems reasonable, but eventually it opens, just a couple inches at first.

“What, it’s too loud?” asks the sliver of the woman’s face she can see through the opening.

“No, I just heard you awake, thought you might wanna grab something to eat? And maybe let me know your name.”

The neighbor opens the door wider, one perfect black eyebrow arching as she looks the fighter up and down. “Where you from, Anissa?”

“LA.”

“And is this how you ask women out on a date in LA?”

“Not a date. Just some food, conversation.” When she still sees indecision all over the woman’s face, she takes a respectful step back. “You know what? That’s okay. Sorry to bother you again. Your performance was fly, though. Wanted you to know that.”

Anissa’s almost to the stairs when the woman’s voice stops her: “Wait, wait. You know what? I _am_ actually hungry. Let me just grab my purse.”

The boxer shoves her hands in her pockets to hide sudden nerves. When she glances at the door, it’s swung almost completely open. Her eyes settle on a kitchen playset, the kind that’s all plastic and rounded edges, and a yellow Tonka dump truck with wooden letter blocks in the back. Then, her neighbor’s leggings are obscuring the view, and she’s closing the door quickly. “Ready?”

Anissa blinks as she comes back to the moment, but decides to file questions away for later. “That depends. Am I getting a name?”

“What do _you_ think my name is?”

The fighter narrows her eyes as a red alert sounds in her mind. “Ah, no—this is a trap. I know a trap when I hear one.”

For the first time, she hears the beautiful, raven-haired woman’s laugh, and it makes her stomach flip. Warmth pools between her ears, and she’s sure her blush is bright enough to be showing through her dark skin when the neighbor’s fingers curl around her elbow. “That’s actually the best answer I’ve ever gotten to that question,” she admits as they head towards the stairs.

“Which means that… I win?” Anissa dares to turn and look at her as they walk and is rewarded with a wide, genuine smile. “Let’s try this again. Nice to meet you…?”

“Grace.”

“Hi, Grace. I’m Anissa.”

The woman formerly known as “the music and Mystique downstairs neighbor” takes her to the French Quarter, which is packed with people despite being a Wednesday night. They stroll past the renowned Café Du Monde and down a main thoroughfare, until they reach Bourbon Street.

“I thought this was like… tourist central,” prods Anissa as they weave through crowds of revelers, drag queens, and street performers.

“Oh, are you a local now? Too good for all this?” laughs Grace over her shoulder.

“Just saying,” is all Anissa can manage in response, and she’s just about to give herself a mental smack on the head when Grace reaches back and finds the fingers of her left hand, twining hers through them.

“Don’t wanna lose you,” she says with a wink, and the boxer is struck truly speechless. Her heart gives a panicked thump, and even though they’re walking through one of the best people watching locations in the world, all Anissa can see is Grace’s flowing black hair, and all she can process is the warm palm pressed against hers as it drags her along the sidewalk.

Eventually, they come to a street vendor, though Anissa isn’t sure the place could even be called that. An elderly Asian woman and a middle-aged man who looks to be her son are sitting behind a folding table with a generator powering three tabletop burners, each with a giant stock pot on top. There’s no signage, no menu, not even prices.

The man says something to Grace, and it isn’t until they’ve gone back and forth a few times that Anissa realizes they’re not speaking English. She tilts her head and listens closer, but despite living in Southern California her whole life, she isn’t familiar enough with even the most common foreign languages to hazard a guess.

When Grace’s fingers release hers, she forgets what’s happening and almost grabs the hand back, but then she hears the conversation switch back to English: “ _Ông,_ this is my new neighbor, Anissa. She’s from LA.”

The man looks at her with a kind expression, and he has fairly thick accent when he says, “I have been to LA many times. My daughter and her wife live in Garden Grove. A little south, yes?”

“Yeah, before you get to San Diego,” confirms Anissa, accepting his hand to shake. “Hope whatever impression LA made is a good one…” She panics, momentarily blanking on what Grace had just called him. “Ohm?”

“This is Quang. He’s _ông_ to us because he’s an old man,” clarifies Grace with a lighthearted chuckle directed at the man, and Anissa is instantly calmed by her hand returning to rest on her upper arm. “He’s been feeding me since I was too small to see over the table. That’s _Bà_ Loan, his mom. This is her recipe.”

“Nice to meet you both. I think you could maybe feed her a little more, this girl is skin and bones.”

That makes Quang laugh, and even the old woman offers a smile. It’s then that Anissa sees what’s in the pots, as the man dumps a mess of crawfish, sausage, brussel sprouts, potatoes, and corn on the table. From another pot, he adds a healthy pile of crab parts, and all of it smells _amazing._

“This is Vietnamese style,” explains Grace as she stuffs napkins into her pocket. “You ever hit up Garden Grove at home?”

“Nah not really, especially since the rest of California has been opening boba places like Starbucks lately. Plus, it’s always kind of…” Anissa’s jaw clicks shut as she realizes where she’s going with that.

Grace just levels a calm stare back at her. “You can say it.”

“That’s, uh, I don’t know—“

“A lot of those places aren’t exactly friendly to black customers,” interrupts Grace, and Quang is nodding along with her words. “Sorry. Sometimes I forget to think before I speak.”

“No, no, you’re just talking. Don’t worry about that.” Anissa isn’t sure what to say to the other part except to confirm with a shrug.

It’s Quang who responds next, as he’s taking a twenty from Grace, and Anissa suspects it’s not even close to the actual cost of this meal. “It has been a shameful problem in our community for a long time. For what it’s worth, welcome to the neighborhood, Anissa. If you ever need a friendly face, don’t hesitate to come by.”

“There’s that Southern hospitality I’ve been waiting on,” says Anissa to hide the spike of emotion that hits her behind the eyes. Between Gambi brushing her off, her ignored calls to Lynn, and Maseo’s quick dismissal, she hadn’t realized how much she needed a hit of freely extended acceptance.

“Come on, let’s find a good spot.” Grace hands her one of the plates, and they end up sitting on Anissa’s laid out zip hoodie (she insisted) on the edge of the street at Bourbon and Ann, which is all rainbow flags and shirtless men.

The food is messy and _spicy,_ and Anissa hopes Grace can’t see the sweat rolling off her head as she cracks open a crawfish and pulls the chute from its tail flesh. Luckily, her neighbor is mostly keeping her eyes on the people milling around, and the air anything but silent—full of joyous shouting, club music, and the occasional operatic note ringing out over the rest. She’s also destroying her plate of food, running circles around Anissa at cracking shells and cleaning out meat.

But eventually, Anissa’s getting full, and the rush of the spices and the closeness of Grace’s thigh to hers has the boxer feeling better than she has in weeks. “So, what do you do, Grace with the seafood hookup?”

“I’m an artist,” she replies after a pause.

“Artist. Like, sculptures? You chainsawing foxes out of tree trunks in there and got to cover it up with the music?”

Grace rolls her eyes, but chuckles and bumps Anissa’s shoulder with hers. “I mean if someone was paying the right price, why not?”

“Because no one should have a chainsaw carved anything in their home, white or not, and that is the truth.” Anissa’s chest is puffing up with pride as Grace continues to laugh, and she’s quite sure she could sit on the dirty street in the middle of the Big Easy all night, doing nothing but drawing more of those sounds, those exasperated looks and eyes upturned with mirth, out of this woman.

But she’s Anissa, and as Jen is always telling her, she’s always leaping before she looks. “Can I ask you a personal question?” she blurts, and immediately wants to grab it back when the woman next to her tenses.

After a beat, Grace just guesses, “The toys in my apartment?”

“Yeah, just… I mean, you don’t have to talk about it at all, if you don’t want.”

“I know I don’t have to,” she returns with a hint of annoyance, but goes on anyway. “I have a kid. Toys are for her.”

Anissa raises her eyebrows and waits.

“Hanh. She’s two. Surprised you haven’t heard her running around.”

The boxer thinks back to her time in the apartment, but nothing comes to mind. “Wouldn’t say I was paying close attention to the building, when I first got here.”

“You mean until you saw me with no bra and a half unbuttoned shirt?”

“Yep,” admits Anissa, unashamed since there’s nothing she can do about the truth. “And uh… dad? He in the picture?”

“That’s where she is right now. He gets two weeks with her every three months and alternating Christmas and Thanksgivings. Lives in Miami.”

Anissa nods to fill the ensuing silence, but then reaches across the space between them to grasp Grace’s fingers. “Hanh? That’s a pretty name.”

The artist relaxes immediately, even letting out a short, breathy scoff. “I guess if I’m sharing all my big secrets right now, I should also tell you that I’m bi.”

“Ooh.” The boxer narrows her eyes, fighting off a grin as she attempts to tease: “A kid, I can handle—but bi? I dunno…” She’s trying to keep a straight face, but it just dissolves into another chuckle.

“I mean, you do you. _I_ will be just fine.” Grace winks at her, and they laugh together with their hands still entwined, the contact gritty from the spices lingering on their fingers. “And what is it you’re doing here, Anissa from upstairs who works out a lot?”

“I’m a boxer. Full-time.”

Grace seems momentarily at a loss for words, and her eyes flicker across Anissa’s face in a familiar move—searching for signs of injury. Nearly everyone she tells does that. “A… boxer. I can see it. So that’s why you’re working out all the time.”

“Yep. My dad was a fighter, too. Came down to try to convince Gambi or someone in his gym to train me. Nobody in LA would do it, but I’m not having any luck here, either… So for now, I’m just training myself and hoping someone will take a chance on me soon.”

“Have you ever, like… what do they call it? Had a bout?”

“Yeah, in Mexico. Those aren’t sanctioned fights, so they wouldn’t go on my professional record, but it taught me how to take a professional size punch, that’s for sure. And I’ve never lost a match. ”

Grace’s lips are slightly parted, maybe in surprise, but Anissa zeroes in on the red flush spreading from her chest up her neck. _Is she… does this turn her on?_

“That’s… hmm.” Grace gives her head a little shake and seems to get whatever’s going on under control. “And to answer your earlier question properly, I am a freelance artist, mosty 2D stuff… almost all of it comic books.”

“Yo, _comic books?”_ Anissa doesn’t even try to hide her reaction, eyes widening and mouth dropping open in awe. “Which ones?”

“I’ve helped out with Wonder Woman, Batman. I did a special edition Jubilee miniseries for X-Men.”

Their eyes lock as the reference harkens back to the other night, and Anissa raises her eyebrows, but lets Grace decide whether to address it.

“When Hanh’s with her dad, I’ll do a limited run show at the Ruby Red Lipstick Lounge, where you saw me the other night. It’s nerd bait. I barely have to pick a decent song as long as the costume is good.” Grace lets out a noise that’s more nervousness than chuckle and goes on, “I practice at home and pull in maybe three-K a week, cash. When Hanh’s with me, I work on my freelance stuff, which is much quieter, and don’t have to pay childcare.”

 _“Three_ Gs?” coughs Anissa, nearly dropping her plate.

“I’m a single mom, and her dad’s child support has been… unreliable, at best.”

“Oh, I’m not judging you _at all._ I’m jealous. That’s a hell of a side hustle, damn. Be you, seriously. We’re all out here just trying to make it.”

The relieved smile Grace gives her is like a wash of cleansing heat after a long winter, and Anissa puts a hand on the woman’s knee. She nearly closes her eyes in relief when Grace doesn’t move it away.

 

* * *

 

_LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA_

Lynn is digging around the couch cushions when she hears Jen walk into the room. “Hey sweetie, have you seen my—“

The answer comes before she finishes the question, in the form of Anissa’s voice: _“Hey Ma, it’s me. I just wanted to let you know that I’m settled into my apartment, found a gym, and I’ve been talking to Gambi. He’s… old. Really old. Mostly, I wanted to tell you that I’m doing all right, and… kinda hoped to hear your voice, not just your boring message. Hope things are good with you. Love you. Bye.”_

By the time is voicemail is done, Lynn’s sitting on the couch, her throat tight as she tries to avoid her other daughter’s sharp glare.

“Mom, you can’t just ghost your daughter,” scolds Jen, ever the most confident in her convictions of the household. A major inherited trait from her father. “Anissa is following a dream, something she _needs_ to do. Can’t you see that?”

Lynn sniffs, adjusting her blouse as she replies, “Serious bodily harm is _not_ a dream. Curing cancer is a dream. Living happily and healthily ever after is a dream.”

“What about all the track stars who blow tendons and break bones? You think we aren’t putting more stress on our body than we might otherwise, every time we step out there?”

“It’s not the same, and you know it.” Lynn holds out her hand, and Jen reluctantly puts the phone in her palm. “How did you get my passcode?”

“I didn’t. I just put my thumbprint in last time you left it unlocked.” Jenn sits down next to her mother with a softening expression. “But seriously, Mom… I get why you’re worried, but Anissa is gonna do what she’s gonna do, no matter what. That much we know. And if your worst fears come true… You’re gonna hate yourself for a long time if you left it like this with her.”

That hits Lynn like an avalanche, and she has to blink back tears as she looks down at the Apple-transcribed text of her daughter’s last voicemail. “This fighting stuff has my emotions all over the place. If I’m being honest, I’m… deeply angry with her, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her.”

“Call Anissa. Say _that_ to her, Ma. You’ll both feel better, and _you_ know that _I_ am right about that.” Jen leans over to give her mom a hug that’s all too rare these days. “Plus, you need to hear about this girl she just met. She’s got a kid.”

Lynn presses two fingers against her temple, choosing to put that tidbit aside until she speaks with her eldest.

 

* * *

 

_NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA_

Anissa is surprised when she looks up from tying her hightops to see Gambi’s limping gait. He’s trying to move towards her, but keeps getting stopped by fawning fighters and trainers, until Maseo finally stops him with a firm handshake.

“TKO Tailor in the house,” says the head trainer in a high tone. “Man, it’s _great_ to see you. I’ve been hoping you got my calls, about my girl? You hear about her record?”

“Yeah, yeah—17-0, undefeated, it’s impressive. Hey Tatsu, how you doin’?”

The boxer waves a glove at him and inclines her head.

“Champ, come on—I’m begging you, join the team. Motivation, in-bout coaching, and we’ll do the rest. We could really use you in our corner, man.”

Gambi is looking over his shoulder at Anissa, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t get a thrill out of the situation. The legend is there for _her,_ not Katana.

“Sorry man, I’m not looking to do anything big time, just work out this kid—“

“Hollywood? How do you know Hollywood?” Maseo has followed Gambi’s gaze, and now he’s looking right at her too, but with a distinctly less friendly expression.

“Ah, she just came in the restaurant, helps me out sometimes. We’ll talk about your fighter, we’ll talk. Keep up the good work.”

Anissa looks away from the death glare she gets when Gambi disengages and approaches her with self-conscious glances from side to side. Without him even saying anything, her pulse is racing with excitement. Is this finally _it?_

“Hey, Unc. You ready for this?” she asks, cutting right to the chase of why she thinks he’s there.

“Are you? _Really_ ready?”

That’s all the confirmation she needs, and Anissa rises to her feet with hands clenched. “Show me what you got. I’m right here.”

“Listen, please. _Really_ listen, now.” Gambi takes a deep breath. “I had other plans for my life than getting back in this mess, but your father was special. I don’t know yet if _you_ are special. _You_ won’t know until the time is right. It’s not gonna come overnight, either. You’re gonna take a beating, you’re gonna get the shit knocked out of you, but you’re gonna get up, keep going, and we’re going to see if you got what it takes. Agreed?”

Anissa’s nodding, and if just one monologue from Gambi can get her blood pumping like this, she feels like she’ll conquer anything in their way after _really_ working with this titan of the sport.

“Above all, you’re going to work hard. If you don’t, I’m not gonna be your mommy—I’m out the door, for good. Got it?”

“Hell yeah, Uncle Gambi. _Hell_ yeah. Let’s fucking do this.” She smacks her hands together, and Gambi gestures to the speed bags.

The next week is a blur of motion. Anissa feels like from the moment her alarm squawks her out of a dream to the second she falls into bed, she’s moving. Bag drills, jump rope, combo practice, and cardio. So, so much cardio. The Tailor’s Gym has treadmills, at least, so she isn’t out running in the sweltering Louisiana heat—until Gambi decides to add that twist, too, arguing it can only help to face the harsher conditions. It’s painstaking work that makes her realize, despite being basically a superathlete in most contexts, she’s still woefully unfamiliar with the fundamentals of boxing, the muscle groups and lung capacity needed for the targeted drills when properly coached.

When her body absolutely must take a break, they watch clips of boxers like Looker, Katana, and Killer Whale on her phone, dissecting each of their unique styles and weaknesses and throwing it back to how Anissa’s style could be modified for each type of opponent. Looker is a balance of speed and smarts, and though she hits hard, she doesn’t hit nearly as hard as Katana. Killer Whale is an OP status roll, basically—her reach makes it near impossible to get in a clean shot without taking a punishing blow in return. She's Not only formidable, she’s dangerous, known for the occasional dirty shot, and her explosive brother Tobias once broke the nose of an opposing cutter when he accused them of bribing a referee. All that hullabaloo just adds to the mental aspect of any fight with the soon-to-be imprisoned world champion.

Otherwise, it’s all working out, all the time. Anissa’s six hours into a training day when she has to collapse after a round on the heavy bag.

“That bell doesn’t mean school’s out, ‘Nissa. Get up,” says Gambi in a bored tone. “You’re not done yet. That bell means hell.”

She knows she’s been dragging today, and there are no excuses. Nothing’s different than yesterday, or the day before, but her muscles are feeling weighed down with sandbags, her mind refusing to focus on the task at hand.

Eventually, Gambi can tell too, and he tugs her away from the bags to the mirror wall. They stand next to each other, facing their reflections. “Okay, take your stance. More to one side, make a small target. Now, who’s your opponent?”

Anissa blinks as her feet shift and her hands raise, and she can’t immediately decide what Gambi is asking. “Looker?”

“No, not pretending today. Who’s your opponent?”

When he gestures to the mirror again, Anissa finds herself staring into her tired-looking eyes.

“See that woman staring back at you? _That’s_ your toughest opponent, your arch nemesis. Doesn’t matter who’s in the other corner. This person right here is who you need to beat, every time.”

Anissa nods, and Gambi leans his head so they’re watching almost along the same lines as she practices a few punches.

“Throw a jab in the jaw. One to the gut. Now, every time you punch this woman, what’s she doing?”

“She’s throwing one back at me.”

Gambi clicks his tongue approvingly. “Exactly, so either you block it, flip it, or get out of the way. Every punch you throw risks getting one shot right back at you while you’re not in a position to defend yourself.”

Anissa is way ahead of him now, and she’s full-body boxing the version of herself in the mirror, feet dancing, as he walks away. She stares intently into her eyes, seeing the drain of her own life there. The group homes. The bullying, the violence. The complete dismissal by so, so many people through the years. It’s all baggage from other people’s actions, and it’s weighing her down as heavily as the exhaustion in her muscles. She forces herself back to her reflection and keeps moving. Jab. Hook. Cross. Duck, block, block.

“Gonna leave you two alone for awhile. Work some stuff out.”

 

* * *

 

At the end of the first week, not only does Anissa get the afternoon off from Gambi, but she’s got a dinner planned with Grace. Neither of them say if it’s a date, and neither of them ask, but Anissa is nonetheless nervous about it as she searches for an outfit in her bedroom closet. A tracksuit would say, ‘this is casual and I’m being non-threatening,’ but she worries it might also say, ‘I’m definitely not here for a date, because who would wear this on a first date?’

So she FaceTime’s her little sister, the preeminent expert on such things. Jen’s sitting in her room, also getting ready for a Friday night, and her eyes narrow when Anissa explains the situation.

“Niss, you are a whole grown ass woman. You can’t just casually clarify the intention with her?”

“Advice now, criticism later,” sighs Anissa as she holds up two outfits.

“Short sleeves. Long sleeves hide your biceps, and the ladies love that.”

“Oh, you’re an expert on what ladies love now?”

“I’ve seen Tumblr, Anissa. I _got_ you.”

Twenty minutes later, and Anissa is inclined to agree that Jen knows what she’s doing. The boxer is wearing a short-sleeved white button down with black capped buttons, a green and brown cargo print bomber jacket, black skinny pants, and a pair of lilac flats, with her hair pulled back into a pristine bun. Jen is saying something about clean lines while Anissa mentally rehearses exactly how she’s going to knock on the door, and then there’s a long pause before her sister’s voice takes on a serious tone: “You really like this girl, don’t you?”

Anissa looks up from where she’d been fiddling with her belt and sees a strange look on her sister’s somewhat pixelated face. “Hmm? I mean, she’s cool.”

“Oh, okay, so you just stone cold now, sure.” Jen’s eyeroll is visible on the phone from across the room. “Anissa, you’ve never so much as told me you had a date _before_ you went on it. You only ever complained after. This one seems different from where I’m sitting.”

“Yeah, sitting all the way in LA.” Anissa goes for distraction, because she really can’t handle Jen’s intuition adding to the stakes of this dinner. “When are you gonna come visit?”

“When you pay for my plane ticket,” sighs Jen. “Ma called you yet?”

“Not yet. Still the silent treatment.”

“She’ll come around. You know it’s because she loves you, right?”

“I know.”

“Well… Keep your head up, and _please_ don’t talk about gross medical things if you want to keep this girl around.”

They exchange ‘Love yous’, and end the call, with Anissa still nervously assessing her outfit in the full-body mirror hanging on the back of her bedroom door and her sister’s words trying to needle into her mind. “ _This one seems different_.”

Exactly one minute after the 7:00 invite, Anissa’s knocking on 203, and Grace opens the door almost immediately. She looks more apprehensive than Anissa expected, and it loosens the tight ball of nerves in the boxer’s stomach. Grace is wearing another flannel, though Anissa would risk calling it a _nicer_ one, made of a thick material and bright with a yellow and red plaid pattern. But, while the artist is usually wearing leggings and strap sandals, tonight she has on a pair of straightleg jeans and black penny loafers, and her hair is tamed down from its usual mess of loose waves.

“Hey, neighbor,” she says with a grin, and Anissa steps through the threshold to 203 for the first time. “Welcome to my place, I guess.”

It’s clear Grace has lived there a long time, with every free space occupied by furniture, storage, or kid stuff. While there isn’t much in the way of decor, the walls are filled from floor to ceiling with art, and Anissa can tell it’s not just from the $5 poster bin at a record shop. She almost doesn’t notice the practice pole in the living room because of it. There’s an oil painting of Batgirl punching the Joker, a hand-printed lineart of Alex Danvers and Maggie Sawyer in their masquerade masks. It’s marked 2/50, and Anissa has been to enough art fundraisers for local hospitals to know how important that is. Everything else seems designed for comfort and, most likely, to withstand small children.

“So this the house?” she asks when she realizes she’s been staring a tad too long.

“This is it,” confirms Grace apprehensively.

“I like it. Very you.”

“Very ‘me’?”

“Definitely.” Anissa nods, picking up a Wonder Woman comic book from the coffee table, and she finds Grace’s name listed under the contributing artists section. She can’t deny it’s pretty cool to see. “Any new work today?”

“Yeah, but um… not sure it’s ready for the masses.”

“I get that.” The fighter offers her best comforting smile as she sets the comic down. “But it’s just me here.”

That works, seemingly putting Grace at ease, because she bites her lip and gestures to the hallway. Anissa follows her into a small office-like room, taken over by tilted stacks of paper and all manner of paint, colored pencils, markers, even... a box of crayons. _Probably for Hanh,_ she rationalizes quickly.

“This is it. My life’s work.”

A flash of red and blue catches Anissa’s eye, and she moves to a table piled precariously high with sketches and supplies. “ _Supergirl?_ Is this new?”

“Contract for twelve issues. It’s a good gig, and hopefully opens more doors.” Grace leans against the wall, biting her lip as she watches Anissa take it in.

The boxer’s eyes linger over sketches of Supergirl and her enemies in battle poses… and then one of Supergirl laughing and holding Lena Luthor in her arms, bridal-style, as they fly past puffy clouds. The little pink hearts floating between their heads leave no room for interpretation.

“Grace Choi, is this fanart?” she teases as her fingers reach for the drawing. “Talk about nerd bait.”

“I’d put it in the comic if the writers asked.” Grace moves over to her, peering at the piece over her shoulder. It brings her close enough to smell the jasmine of her shampoo, and Anissa almost leans back against the body she knows is just inches behind hers. When she stops herself, she quickly tries to put the drawing back on the table—

But with her heart hammering the way it is, Anissa’s fingers fumble, and she accidentally knocks over the stack of papers.

Drawings go everywhere, with some chunks dropping like bricks while individual sheets drift back and forth like leaves until they hit the floor, and Anissa only manages to grab one as it tries to go with gravity. “I am _so_ sorry—“

“Don’t worry, leave it, really—“ Grace cuts off, her eyes locked on the paper now gripped in Anissa’s hand. “Shit.”

The fighter looks down and has to blink a couple times to process. It’s just a hand-sized sketch with unfinished color, probably a concept piece… but it’s depicting a dark-skinned superhero dressed in purple, yellow, and black, with a raccoon-like yellow mask over her eyes. The outfit matches the color scheme of Anissa’s custom stitched fight shorts, which she showed Grace when bringing the delivery upstairs earlier in the week, and the superhero has her same long braids.

Anissa turns so they’re facing one another. “Is this… Is this me?” The boxer can hear how high her voice is, but there’s nothing she can do about that, not with the way her pulse is racing.

“Yeah,” sighs Grace, cheeks reddening. “Just a… concept, thing.”

The artist almost takes a step back, as if to retreat, but Anissa lifts one hand to the other woman’s shoulder as she leans in for a kiss, nothing fancy, just pressing her lips over the plush pink ones she’s been admiring for weeks. It’s a soft, hesitant thing, and Anissa intends for it to be brief, but Grace chases her mouth and kisses her back for a few seconds before they part. She rests her forehead on Anissa’s and sighs.

“That okay?” asks the boxer quietly.

“For now.” Grace gives her another peck before pulling fully away, her cheeks bright red. “Come on, food’s ready. It’s my last meal as a free woman, before Hanh comes back.”

Dinner consists of red beans and rice with andouille sausage, with sides of steamed corn and handcut sweet potato fries. They sit next to, instead of across from, each other at the small dining table, which has a green plastic high chair pulled up to the other side, plus a booster seat on one of the chairs. The closeness has Grace landing gentle touches along her arm throughout the meal, even once or twice offering a bite from her fork to the fighter as they discuss current events, movies, things to do in New Orleans, and occasionally, boxing.

When dinner is finished, Anissa can tell from Grace’s worsening squirms that it’s time to go. She offers to help clean the dishes before she goes, but Grace insists it’s unnecessary. They stand in the doorway for awhile, their conversation winding down as they lean closer and closer. But eventually, another tenant interrupts as he’s going up the stairs, and Anissa gives Grace a quick kiss on the cheek before saying goodnight. The artist pulls her back for a real one, languid and sweet, and she feels like a world champion already as she skips steps up to her apartment.

 

* * *

 

Anissa’s working a speed bag when she sees Maseo making a move. He was never a great fighter, having tried and failed to get into the scene before his wife went pro, and she can see at least one big reason why in the very obvious set of his jaw and shoulders, openly broadcasting his intent to _try something_ as he approaches them _._

“Hey, Champ,” he greets in an overly cheery tone. “Kid looks great.”

“She’s getting better,” is all Gambi concedes, not yet looking up from his newspaper.

“What’s your weight, Hollywood?”

“Right now? Maybe 144,” she says, and this gets Gambi to raise his head.

“Why?” demands the old man as his brow furrows.

“Get to 140, and we’ll make something happen, if you’re interested.”

Anissa is just about to give her enthusiastic consent to whatever that means, but then Gambi is on his feet and stepping between the trainer and his fighter. “140? That’s your girl’s weight, Maseo.”

“Yeah, and we need a fight to keep warm. Lost the chance at a down ballot fight after Whale blew her load.”

The men move farther from her to keep talking, but Anissa’s not listening; she’s looking at Katana, who’s staring right back at her as she practices on a speedbag. 17-0 isn’t groundbreaking, but beating one of them right out the gate could be. And Tatsu? She’s got a right hook that’s cracked skulls, but after watching hours of her wins… There’s suddenly a burning itch in her stomach to end the contender’s rise and take that trajectory for her own.

“I can do it, Gambi,” she blurts, following the trainers across the floor. “Let’s do it.”

“No, no, we’re not making a decision right at this moment,” he’s saying before Maseo can accept. “Mas, respectfully, we’ll get back to you on this.”

Just the idea gets Anissa hyped enough that she somehow knocks the heavy bag off its chain a few minutes later, and Gambi calls it a day before she breaks her hand.

“You’re not ready,” he’s saying over and over again as Anissa excitedly jogs circles around him on their way down the street. “I’ve never even seen you fight.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been watching Katana, and I’m confident she’s gonna catch my fade.”

“Your fade?”

“I’ma knock her out.”

“See, it’s saying stuff like that that makes me confident in a No. We’re training to win, not get killed. Katana’s a scrappy fighter, has that _something_ going. She’s got what it takes, and she’ll break your spine on her way there.”

“No—listen, Unc.” She stops them both in the middle of the sidewalk and looks him in the eye. “Take the match. I’ll have six weeks to get ready. I’ll do whatever it takes. If I’m not ready in five, we call it off.”

They cycle through a few more arguments before her persistence pays off, and Gambi changes from No to: “It’s going to be an even more intense six weeks than we’ve been doing so far. You’re gonna eat, sleep, and breathe boxing.”

“Well that’s perfect, because you know I’m already twenty-four-seven in this. I’ll go get my stuff right now, let’s get your van.”

“Your stuff? What stuff?”

“To move into your spot. Start training camp, the old school way. You’re in it twenty-four-seven now, too.”

“No, no—it’s been just me in that house for a long time. I don’t think you’ll be comfortable there.”

“Why? You walk around naked?”

“No, but—“ Gambi huffs and gives his head a shake. “And you better not, either.”

“We’re good, then,” finishes Anissa, trying not to pump the air at her victory. She’s gonna fight the Katana.

They pick up Gambi’s panel van and load it with necessities, leaving the furniture and luxuries in 303. Once they’ve got everything secured, Anissa’s almost in the passenger seat when she happens to look up at the building, intending on a nostalgic gaze, except brown eyes framed by black hair are looking down at her, and she nearly trips off the curb. _Shit._

“Hey. You movin’?” Grace calls down from the second floor, one perfect eyebrow arched.

“Yeah, uh—it all happened kinda fast, and the last couple days have been real busy. Hadn’t gotten a chance to call you yet. I’ma be away for awhile to get ready for a fight. Is Hanh back?”

“She is,” says the artist thinly, and the tone makes Anissa gulp.

Gambi comes around the van and stops, noticing his fighter looking up. When he follows her gaze and spots Grace, he gives a friendly wave that suggests the tension goes over his head. “Hi.”

“Uh, Unc—this is Grace. Grace, this is my uncle.”

“Your uncle?” This seems to catch Grace off guard enough that she scoffs into a grin. “He’s white.”

“Have been for a long time,” confirms Gambi nonchalantly as he starts moving around to the driver’s side. “Nice to meet you, Grace.”

When he’s out of sight, the artist just tilts her head and looks at Anissa with an expectant expression until the boxer caves and calls up, “What?”

“When were you going to tell me your _uncle_ is the TKO Tailor?”

Anissa shrugs, dumbly, and the van’s engine is turning over, so she tries to buy some time as she starts to slip into the passenger seat: “I’ll call you.”

“All right, but I’m not gonna hold my breath,” is what she hears before she closes the door. She’ll call later. She can explain herself better when she’s not in the middle of something. But she still watches for Grace in the side mirror as they drive away, except the artist has already pulled her head back in the window.

 

* * *

 

“Grace seems nice,” Gambi offers awkwardly as he sets one of Anissa’s duffels on the bed of her new room. The whole house, a two-story, three bedroom number, screams _old white man,_ and she’s sure it hasn’t been redecorated since the early 90s.

“Yeah, she’s cool,” she replies as she eyeballs the full bed with dusty paisley comforter.

“Do you like her?”

“Sure. Nothing serious, though.” Anissa ignores the way those last words burn on their way out.

“Okay… Women make the legs weak, you know?”

“My legs are fine,” huffs the younger boxer. She doesn’t really feel like getting _that_ lecture tonight.

As she’s examining the empty bureau on one side of the room, she notices a small framed photo on top of it and picks it up gingerly to wipe away the dust. In it, a younger Peter Gambi and a boy who looks like his miniature are smiling at the camera, and next to them is the laughing face of Jefferson Pierce. _At least he was there for somebody’s kid,_ whispers one of her old demons, and she puts the frame back down.

“That’s my son, Paul,” explains Gambi, quietly.

“Did you train him too?”

“I tried, but… he was never really into it. He just didn’t like fighting.”

“And where’s Paul these days? Still living here?”

“No, he’s… He moved to Calgary, if you can believe that, after growing up in this Devil’s kitchen.” The old man’s chin wavers, and he blinks several times before going on. “It was tough for him, being my son in this town. He’s a sweet kid, and all the other kids ever wanted to do was beat the crap out of him, as if that somehow meant they beat me. Got out of here as fast as he could, to a place where nobody gives a shit about Peter Gambi. Haven’t talked to him in years.”

Anissa puts a hand on the retired fighter’s shoulder and gives a good squeeze.

“Why don’t you unpack, all right? Make yourself comfortable? Gotta stop by the restaurant. I’ll be back, and then we’ll start first thing in the morning, okay?”

He leaves, and Anissa peers down at Jefferson’s face for awhile, trying to quell the way it makes her stomach churn with feelings she’d thought were well buried.

But now’s not the time for all that: She has her first real professional fight to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things:  
> \- I chose to completely change the setting of the boxing journey for real reasons, I promise. Racebending Grace from a copy of Tessa Thompson's character, Bianca, feels icky af, and one of the big things of the movie is emphasis on local culture. So instead of trying to insert Grace's character into Philadelphia's black community, we're in New Orleans because there's a very large Vietnamese population there, and Chantal Thuy is Vietnamese... here we are.  
> \- Sorry Jefferson. It's just how this story goes!!


	2. Anissa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anissa fights her first professional bout, faces alligators and a new foe, and (the scariest of them all) meets an important toddler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll have been so kind about this! I am endlessly grateful for the feedback and hope that this chapter doesn't disappoint. <3
> 
> There's a lot more Black Lightning canon reinterpretation woven into the Creed narrative here. Like... maybe I got a little carried away.

_NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA_

Five weeks fly by like nothing in the face of Gambi’s boot camp training. Twenty-four-seven is in no way an exaggeration, least of all because she even _dreams_ about boxing.

By “in the morning,” Anissa learns day zero that Gambi means 5:45 a.m., and not just “up”—out the door. The retired fighter plays horrible old man music the first week to help “inspire” her out of bed, and every damn time, he’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, dancing and singing up and down the hallway while she’s trying to brush her teeth and avoiding giving him a real taste of her right cross.

Anissa still isn’t sure how, but Gambi has an entire team ready to go the day after accepting the fight, as promised. He’d taken her to an unmarked building near Tulane’s campus, tucked in its own little spot between some homes, and casually turned the key to a boxer’s wonderland as he explained the importance of training where an opponent can’t see her work.

It’s an entire gym dedicated to fight readiness, and unlike the Tailor’s gym, apparently 100% owned by Peter Gambi. The fluorescent lights buzz as they kick on, and Anissa spins to take in a dated, but pristine sparring ring with purple ropes, three sets of each type of bag, and an entire weight room alongside strength machines of all kinds. There are old fight posters and myriad hand-scribbled signs all over the walls, all with fitspo sayings like, “If you’re not training, someone else is training to kick your ass.”

The first team member to show up is “Stitch”, who Gambi introduces as “the best cut doc in the business.” She’s a white woman in her late fifties with a thick, Deep South accent.

“I know you were a PA back home, but I think we can still be friends. I promise, I know what I’m doing,” says Stitch from behind thick plastic-frame glasses, and Gambi shrugs at Anissa’s questioning look. “Google. Ya’ll heard of it?”

Stitch is joined by an older guy literally just called “Padman” and his daughter, a pro-am fighter named Malia, who’s there to be a regular sparring partner. A man who makes gloves by hand shows up for measurements and to talk colors, and the list goes on of people with hyper-specialized talents, all of them eager to help Gambi, and by proxy Anissa, get back in the game. It’s somewhat difficult to process, but she’s finally got something every boxer needs, other than a trainer—a _team._ Team Washington.

The trainer’s earlier lesson about the enemy in the mirror rears its head often. With twenty days to go before the bout, Anissa is sparring in the ring with Malia like she’s done every day for weeks, and she can tell the other woman is feeling extra amped today. There’s something different in her eyes, a particular tightness to her jaw.

“Real shots today right, pop?” Malia calls to Padman, who grunts in response. She takes an uncharacteristically wild swing at Anissa, sending her scrambling her backwards, and then jabs her in the headgear when her back hits the ropes.

Anissa takes advantage of another sloppy uppercut from her sparring partner to duck under Malia’s arm and dance away. “Gotta be faster than that, wodie.”

“I’m not your fucking wodie,” snarls Malia, and then she unleashes a tight combo, nailing Anissa on the chin. “C’mon, you’re not ready! What’re you even doing out here, Princess?”

 _Princess._ A red haze comes over Anissa’s vision. Technically speaking, the two women are already fighting, but both of them know the punches suddenly slap different while they’re also yelling at each other, until Padman gets between them and Gambi yanks Anissa away.

“You’re not ready. You’re gonna get laid out—”

“Well, not by your semi-pro ass—”

“Okay, okay, ladies,” Gambi’s saying in an attempt at peacemaking. “Take a deep breath. We’re on the same team.”

“Are we doing this thing or not, Champ?” barks the pro-am fighter as her dad hands her a water bottle. “Or did I just spend three weeks fluffing a princess?”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Anissa almost lunges for the woman again, but Gambi holds her firmly in place.

“Same. Team. Get it together. You think none of your opponents are gonna talk shit like this in the ring? You gonna go back to schoolyard fights then, too?” growls the old man as he looks between them. “Now, go apologize.”

Reluctantly, and while still glaring at each other, the women bump gloves and exchange the words, but Anissa doesn’t really feel the air loosen until Malia leans close to say, “Girl, you’re gonna leave the rest of us in the dust. I’m gonna help you get there.”

So goes the weeks, from her 5:00 a.m. wakeup to an 8:00 p.m. collapse into bed. Gambi’s constantly telling her how important sleep is, but truth be told, she’s out before her head hits the pillow most nights regardless of his mantras.

And as the days tick by, her hands get faster and stronger, enduring and dealing steadily more damage. Getting up in the morning is easier, and she can run farther for longer in the sweltering Louisiana heat before feeling like she’s going to vomit her lungs. The punch combinations go from one-two-three to practically an entire dance, with the occasional random surprise to keep her on her toes. Padman’s smug laugh when he nails her in the chin is almost as effective a motivator as Gambi’s monologues, but the former happens less and less.

Training alongside Malia brings her sparring partner’s skills up to a new level too, and they become fast friends, propelling each other forward with each new round. Anissa even meets Malia’s husband and six-year-old daughter when the two occasionally stop to drop off lunches at the gym.

Since Gambi has been opening the gym regularly, neighborhood kids have been filing in to use the equipment after school, under supervision of team members, and watch Anissa train. They’re excellent hypegirls and boys, and they’re not afraid to heckle her when she slips, either.

Her bout isn’t national news, or even statewide, but having Peter Gambi make a return to boxing, with a black, female fighter no less, is enough to have at least most of Louisiana talking about the match. So, a small herd of girls and boys are looking on when Anissa’s hitting the heavy bag, with just nine days to go until the competition. The _tap-tap-tap_ of her combos, vinyl on vinyl, has become as familiar and comforting as her own heartbeat. On this drill, more than any others, she _feels_ the difference in her body from the start of the camp, in her skill and strength, and she can only hope the kid from Tailor’s her first week in town is here to see her now.

Gambi seems to notice her forward-thinking energy, and he’s apparently in a motivational mood, which helps drive her through the final set even as her muscles and lungs scream in protest.

“Boom. _Boom._ Good, I want you to let it all out. Everyone’s who’s ever disrespected you? See them.”

She visualizes Lala’s smirk in the wrinkled bag. Jab, jab, cross. _“These boys come in here because this is how they survive, not because they got bored one day in their LA mansion.”_

The next face in her mind’s eye is Maseo’s, clenched with disgust. Jab, hook, uppercut. _“Self-taught?”_

“Anything you’ve ever wanted, go after it.”

She sees Jefferson holding up a championship belt. She imagines her sister and Mom setting the dinner table. And she sees someone she didn’t expect: Grace, smiling from the doorway of 203.

The boxer powers through the jolt her memory brings, and Gambi’s hitting the peak of his vocal range:

“This is _your_ time, Anissa. Make your statement, leave your mark. One hit, one punch, one round at a time.”

When she’s finished, Gambi and Padman exchange grins. The TKO Tailor says, “I’m gonna call Maseo to finalize. Let’s see if we can’t dull Katana’s edge.”

That night, the old man’s words are still rattling around her head as she lays in bed, for once too wired to be asleep by 8:30. _Anything you’ve ever wanted, go after it._ She’s staring at the ceiling and trying to fight off the swirling, bravado-fueled thought that’s been brewing behind her eyes since she heard that.

Grace. Anissa had been sucked so quickly into the chaos of boot camp that she’d proven the artist right; she hadn’t called. At first, she said a week was reasonable. Then, she told herself that could talk her way out of looking bad after two, but then…. Now, it was some five weeks later, and sudden onset regret threatened to ruin her near-pristine sleep schedule and weigh heavy in her chest. She couldn’t stop the creep of fear that went along with the thought that she’d probably fucked up badly enough to get ignored. That would be entirely fair.

_Anything you’ve ever wanted, go after it._

She hits the phone icon on Grace’s Contact Card before she can change her mind, and of course it goes to voicemail. To better focus on getting out the words she wants, her eyes slip closed while she waits for the beep.

“Hey, Grace, it’s, um… It’s Anissa. Upstairs neighbor who works out a lot. I know it’s been awhile, but I’ve been thinking about you, and I was hoping we could grab a drink or dinner or something. My treat, I owe you.” She sucks in a breath. “Otherwise, got my first big fight coming up next week, and there’s a ringside ticket with your name on it. Harrah’s on the twelfth. I miss y—talking to you. I hope you and li’l bit are doing okay.”

Talking to the void of a voicemail doesn’t really resolve any of her lingering anxieties, but it helps Anissa fall asleep, regardless.

 

* * *

 

Even though Grace doesn’t call back before the day of the bout, Lynn does. Anissa nearly can’t believe it when the name lights up on her phone one afternoon, and she drops it in her haste to answer, but finally, finally, she gets her mother on the line for the first time in weeks.

It’s stilted, at first, strained with things unsaid, but they quickly get to the point of apologies, and Anissa doesn’t care that she’s crying in the gym as Lynn reaffirms that she loves her, wants her to be happy, would welcome her home anytime. The rest, they agree to work through one day at a time.

Jen’s been more or less filling their mom in on the big plot points in the meantime, and Anissa adds that her fight is just three days away. She feels like they’ve moved past the way they used to talk about this, and she’s pleasantly proved right when the line is silent for only a second or two. Lynn’s voice is wistful as she says, “Just like with your father… I always knew Black Lightning would win, in the end. I just refuse to pretend to be happy about it right now. That said, I love you, and I hope you keep yourself safe.”

“Thanks, Ma. For what it’s worth, Gambi and I talk about staying safe all the time. I’ll be okay, and… I’m so happy to hear your voice, finally.”

Lynn promises she’ll watch the Katana bout and tut-tuts Anissa for ghosting a woman she purportedly liked _(“Excuse my language, Anissa, but I did not raise you to be a fuckboy”),_ and the boxer couldn’t have been happier for one of her mother’s lectures to break up the day.

That bit of peace makes the wait for fight night easier, but the final hours leading up to it are… rough. Anissa feels like there’s a knot in her chest the moment her eyes open that morning, and despite her warmups and the most aggressive music on Spotify playing in her AirPods, the knot tightens and grows heavier with each sluggishly passing hour. The process of getting into the venue and her team’s side of the locker room is just a cloudy blank tape when she looks back on it later, but somehow, she finds herself dressed in her yellow, purple, and black shorts with marigold sports bra, the matching gloves secured into place by Stitch.

She has her head between her knees, fending off nausea, when she hears an uptick of voices in the hallway, and then Malia pokes her head into the private room. “‘Nissa, there’s a lady here for ya.”

“A ‘lady’?” she asks, gingerly sitting up again.

Malia clears her throat and lowers her voice, suggesting the visitor is just outside. “She’s, um… Asian girl, really pretty?” And then, almost silently, she mouths: “I think your ex?”

“She’s not m—girl, _why_ didn’t you lead with that?” Anissa surges to her feet, and Malia opens the door with a smirk, stepping aside to let Grace walk into the room.

Even under the fluorescent bulbs, the artist looks stunning, better even than Anissa remembers, and her eyes drink in the woman like she’s the only source of light on the planet. She’s wearing a blue chambray, pearl clasp shirt and khakis tucked into reddish brown boots, with her hair pulled into a ponytail that highlights her long neck. Anissa opens and closes her mouth a few times.

Sighing, Malia waves a hand in front of Anissa’s face to bring her back. “We’re eight minutes out, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, I got it.” The fighter swats her arm. “Just give us a second?”

The other woman nods before closing the door, pushing Padman away as he was trying to enter, and Anissa feels a flicker of flight response in the face of being alone with Grace for the first time in a long time.

Her voice is thin as says, “Hanh is with Quang until tomorrow, and I spent eight dollars Ubering my ass here. Why did I do that?”

The boxer stutters for a panicked moment, but gets out: “You got my voicemail?”

“Obviously.” The artist crosses her arms, looking like she’s about to bolt, too. “So… I’m listening.”

Anissa takes a steadying breath and moves closer. “Grace, I am _so_ sorry that I dropped off without a conversation. It was a shitty thing to do. I fucked up, and for what it’s worth… I didn’t do it because I’m not interested.”

Brown eyes narrow to slits. “Interested in what, exactly?”

“You. In seeing more of what _you and me_ could be like. I’ve just been really bad at showing it,” Anissa clarifies with a helpless shrug.

Whatever reason the artist has for showing up, she does feel lighter and a little less panicked, knowing that Grace is there. That she _did_ arrange childcare and get herself to the casino on a busy Saturday night.

So she lets out a breath, focusing on those positives, and adds, “It means a lot to me that you’re here. I’m glad you came.”

Grace scoffs, looking conflicted, and then frustrated, and then resigned. “Me, too,” she eventually mutters, maybe trying to maintain some attachment to her (justifiable) anger.

Anissa hazards a smile as the tension in the air loosens, but she takes a moment to sort her thoughts before her next words. “Look, I take my work seriously, sometimes too much, but… It doesn’t mean I can’t take other things seriously, too. And I’m willing to put in the work for something serious, with you. If you’re still… _interested.”_

Her first victory of the night comes in the form of Grace’s slow grin. The slender woman’s voice is quieter and lighter when she says, “Those are some brutal puppy dog eyes, Washington. Worse than Hanh.”

“So… do I get another shot?”

“I’m here at great personal expense, aren’t I?” sighs the artist with a chuckle that belies her sarcasm, and then Gambi opens the door to announce the ref’s arrival to go over the match rules. “By the way, this is a more serious thing than I thought from your voicemail. There’s thousands of people here… so take care of yourself out there?”

“It’s all good,” assures Anissa, and when she sees Grace tighten her jaw, she adds in a low tone, “Trust me. You’ve never seen me fight.”

The artist frowns, but then leans in to give her a peck on the lips as the ref is coming in the room. “For good luck. I’ll see you after, okay?”

Ten minutes later, Anissa’s walking into her first professional fight. The event center’s conversion to a boxing arena is an impressive feat, and the fighter gazes around into, as Grace said, thousands of faces lit by swiveling, multicolored lights. To keep costs down, there’s no big production for the fighters’ entrance, but Anissa couldn’t care less about that business as she walks down the aisle and soaks in the scene: the dull roar of the crowd, the fan signs for Katana and TKO Tailor, the way the air seems to crackle with energy and anticipation.

“Welcome to the big top,” Gambi murmurs from behind her as they reach the ring. “Way better than a corrugated metal shed in the desert, eh?”

Even though this is by no means a bout that’ll make it on HBO, it’s still thrilling to be at the top of a (legit) ticket. _The_ fight that everyone is here to see tonight.

This is Katana’s turf, so the crowd’s chanting her name, _Tat-su, Tat-su,_ as the competitors enter from opposite sides of the ring, and the commentators are calling out “Hollywood’s” international “15-0” record next to the other boxer’s professional “17-0”. Anissa sees herself on one of the huge screens above the audience, and she tries to give her best game face, because Giant Anissa looks a little worried up there.

Eventually, her eyes find Grace in the front row, her hands twisted in her lap and brows still knitted, but the artist’s expression loosens when Anissa gives a quick wave of her glove, and the boxer gets a tentative wave in return.

Gambi’s mustache is twitching with agitation so much it almost looks like it’s vibrating, and Anissa bumps his shoulder with hers. “Unc, I got this. I _got_ it.”

In the center of the ring, the referee beckons, and the fighters step towards him with their trainers. “All right ladies, we talked about the rules in the dressing rooms. Obey my commands at all times, protect yourself at all times. Let’s have a good, clean fight tonight and go home to our families. Any questions from the blue corner? Any questions from the red corner? Touch ‘em up, be ready—we’re seconds out.”

Anissa and Katana tap their gloves together, and then move back to their corners to wait for the bell.

“You’re stronger, and you’re tougher than you’ve ever been. You wanted this. You worked for it. Now, I wanna see you _take_ it,” Gambi is saying, poking a finger into her sternum. He knows it makes her furious. “It’s _yours._ You ready?”

“Let’s do this,” she agrees before she turns toward her opponent again, pulling her mouthguard into place with her tongue.

“It’s all about today, kid!” Gambi yells after her.

She’s convinced the people in the first row can see how hard her heart’s thudding against her ribcage, and the nausea comes back in a sharp jolt, but this fight is the culmination of everything she’s been working for—this is do or die, in more ways than one.

Katana’s wearing a bright red bra and shorts, her hair in a tight French braid, and she looks completely at ease as she hops in place to keep warm. Just like Anissa, she’s at peak form, muscles bulging more than the last time she’d seen her, the previous traces of softness absent from her hips. They lock eyes again, and Anissa nods sharply. _Game on._

But it’s not a pretty first round for the rookie. Katana is just as quick as she looks, and her strikes hit so hard that Anissa feels herself begin to tense when she expects the woman’s rocket-powered cross. It’s a bad sign, and she’s so focused on trying not to do it that she ends up taking a couple shots strong enough to make her vision blink anyway, with only meagre jabs landing on the pro in return. The crowd’s loving it.

Katana’s reach is slightly shorter than hers, and those red gloves _shouldn’t_ be hitting her like they are; something’s off-balance, and she has no idea how to fix it. She backs off of her offense to focus on not getting floored, and in response, Katana’s apparently decides to try to break straight through her defense, brute force style. A last-moment jerk of Anissa’s glove over her ear blocks a hook that might’ve knocked her out, and the audience erupts in a _whoooa_ at the close call.

“That’s it, that’s it! Keep moving forward!” Maseo screams from their corner.

After a body shot connects cleanly with the woman’s ribcage, she thinks she’s about to finally set up something good on Katana, but then the older fighter ducks her cross and delivers a hook while Anissa’s still awkwardly turned at the peak of her punch. The strike makes a sound like a car crash in her skull, and pain shoots up her neck when she staggers, but she manages to stay on her feet and get her hands back up.

She’s feeling foggy as Katana walks her back to the corner with a flurry of body blows.

“Gotta be faster than that, wodie!” screams Malia from the crowd. “Come on, where are your feet?”

“What’re you doing? Wake up!” roars Gambi.

It’s like everything the team has been teaching her just _poofs_ into nothingness. She can’t recall a single combo, can’t remember how to get inside Katana’s weak left jab. All Anissa can do for the final seconds of the round is hold her arms up in defense, absorbing the worst of Katana’s strikes until the bell rings. Her opponent is grinning when she heads back to her corner.

Anissa’s vision reddens on one side as she staggers to hers. The team jumps into action, Stitch’s gloved hands coming in and out of sight as someone holds a straw near her mouth for water, and Gambi is leaning down to look her in the face as he says, “You’re okay. Look at me. Deep breaths.”

“It’s like I forgot everything you taught me. Just gone,” gasps Anissa when her mouthguard comes out, wincing as Stitch spreads something cold over her forehead. She realizes when the doc wipes at her eye that the redness in her line of sight had been blood dripping from her brow.

“I know, it’s okay. Shake it off. You’re tense, but I like what you’re doing when you’re on the attack. Don’t get distracted by the dodge. That’s when she’s nailing you. You got this. She’s gonna catch your fade, remember?”

Anissa nods as she sips water, and the throwback to a much more confidently excited moment of her life does breathe a new fire into her stomach.

The match official interrupts to warn them of the next round starting, and Gambi talks faster. “I want you to throw your left under the radar. You’re gonna see an opening on her chin, and that’s when you come up with a shovel hook. Your old man did that to me, and it worked.”

Anissa is already up and moving back into the ring as he finishes the last part, her lungs burning and head roiling with the need to give back what she’s taken. Katana’s thrusting her gloves in the air to egg on the live audience, white mouthguard eerily smudged with red stains, and the crowd is screaming her opponent’s name. Her eyes drop past her opponent to Maseo, who’s shouting instructions about kicking Anissa’s ass with spit flying from his mouth. She slaps her own gloves together. _Ready._

The start of the second round is better, or at least going more to plan, with solid stretches of slugging it out, punch for punch, footwork bringing them all over the mat. Otherwise, until she sees what she wants, Anissa’s mainly hoping to drain the older fighter this round, to eventually slow her down _just_ enough. She focuses on quick, individual jabs, splitting Katana’s lip at some point, and goes for the occasional body shot when there’s a clear opening. Anissa’s not doing enough to win by points at this rate, but as long as she stays upright, there’s a potential for plenty more rounds, and she’s finally settling into the fight.

They tangle a few times and need to be separated by the ref as the clock wanes, and Anissa can feel the weakening strength in her opponent’s body each time. Her tactic is working: Katana _needs_ the bell. Anissa needs to get to her first. The younger boxer shifts to the other side of the ring, making Tatsu chase, and then she can hear Grace’s voice above the others: “Come _on,_ Anissa. Lay her ass out, babe!”

“Seize it, right now! Now!” Gambi’s hoarse screams add right after.

And with her father’s strategy rising to help her from the grave, Anissa makes her move when Katana’s stance shifts _just_ so. It takes all of one second, and news coverage after will show it in super slow motion over and over again. She throws her left, catching the weary fighter’s cheek just hard enough to knock her chin into range for Anissa’s right shovel hook, delivered at a perfect forty-five degree angle into Tatsu’s jaw, and with all of her core strength behind it.

The undefeated fighter flips backwards to land limp on the mat. The audience roars, and the teams are bellowing nonsense all at once as the ref starts the count. “1… 2…”

Katana doesn’t get up in time. Anissa’s watching, heart racing, hope rising, as the woman _tries._ She gets her hands on the second rope by the time the referee hits 7, but it’s not enough.

Anissa feels like her soul leaves her body, her brain unable to process it all as reality. The ref calls the count done, and therefore the bout is done, and Anissa’s _won._ Katana collapses flat onto the mat with a groan. Maseo looks like he might spontaneously combust. People are rushing towards the ring and into it, yelling and cheering as they jostle and congratulate the now, _officially,_ 1-0 fighter.

When she comes crashing back to herself, there’s a the righteous fire in her bones and bittersweet vindication washing through her veins. It’s ecstatic and decadent, like she’s been given a taste of something otherworldly. She knows she’s screaming like a banshee as jumps on the corner to celebrate, before security asks her to get down.

Gambi yanks her in for a bear hug when she finally stops jumping around. “You did it, kid. That was beautiful. Great job.”

“We got one,” she wheezes against his shoulder. “We fucking got one!”

He says something sportsmanly to Maseo over her shoulder, and the other man grumbles back, “It was a lucky shot.”

Malia and Stitch hold open the ropes for Grace, who Anissa just barely spots before the artist plants two hands on her shoulders and _shoves_ with impressive strength, knocking her back a couple steps and sparking pain down the fighter’s torso as she blinks in exhausted surprise.

A whole professional boxing match, and it’s Grace who comes closest to knocking Anissa on her ass.

“Oh shit, oh sorry, sorry, I just—fucking hell, Anissa. Where did that come from? How do you _do_ that?” Grace is babbling and vibrating with energy as she throws herself into the boxer’s arms, fingers smoothing over her shoulders and chest as if checking for injury. She kisses Anissa hard once, twice, and then holds her face close. “You didn’t tell me you had hands _like that._ How could you not tell me?”

“I tried. Pretty sure I tried,” laughs Anissa, and she kisses her again before turning to accept dozens more congratulations, her arm around Grace’s waist.

The victorious boxer talks a big game about hitting the town before she showers and changes into sweats, but as soon as the adrenaline tapers off, she’s fast asleep in the passenger seat of Gambi’s van. Somehow, they get her inside to the couch, because that’s where she wakes up when her uncle jostles her in the process of getting back up off of it. He makes pained grunts as he plods up the stairs, and when he’s gone, Anissa notices Grace is curled against her other side, squirming a little under a heavy quilt. The light from the muted TV flickers in her dark eyes.

“I feel like I got hit by one of those horse carriages,” murmurs the boxer, shifting her weight and groaning at the responding sting in her ribcage. “Or a whole second line.”

Yawning, Grace sits up to check her phone, then looks sleepily at the fighter. Her lips quirk into a foggy smile. “What, no super-healing powers?”

“Uh, that’d be _very_ nice about now. I would blow my secret identity for some of that.” A thought from what seems like so long ago pops into her exhausted mind, and Anissa gives the artist a sideways look, smirking. “Heard you getting pret-ty hype in the crowd tonight. Are you… Does it turn you on, watching me fight?”

“You’re quite the romantic, aren’t you?” Grace teases back with a roll of her eyes. “And _no,_ I’m not turned on watching anyone get hurt. I don’t even _like_ boxing. I can barely watch violent movies.”

Unwilling to change the subject for the squirming artist, Anissa keeps smiling at her, maintaining eye contact, but putting a hand on the knee pressed next to hers and sliding it up Grace’s thigh. “What is it, then?”

“Just… ugh, this is so s-stupid.” The woman’s breath hitches when Anissa’s fingertips reach the join of her leg and hip. “It’s the… winning.”

 _“Winning_ turns you on? Good thing I can work with that, huh?”

 _“No,_ I don’t know… Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what? I’m listening.”

“It’s kind of like superhero stuff, right? Young, buff people travelling the world, knocking each other on their asses? The backstories, the final showdown, _the costumes._ And you…” Grace touches her index finger to Anissa’s chin, and the boxer doesn’t miss how her eyes flicker down to her lips and back up. _“You_ are our intrepid protagonist who beats the odds, defeats all the bad guys, gets the girl?”

 _Gets the girl._ Anissa squeezes the soft flesh under her fingers, trying not to smirk, but probably doing a poor job of it. “I see… but then what’s my superhero name? Purple Gloves?”

“That’s… uniquely horrible,” sighs the artist, but her hand moves down to splay her hand over the Nike logo on the her chest. “Stop ruining this.”

“Ruining what?”

Grace is already leaning over for a kiss, the hand on the fighter’s chest tightening to a fist in her hoodie. This time, it’s not soft, and it’s not sweet, and Anissa is pulling the other woman into her lap before they come up for air.

“What about your uncle?” Grace murmurs, pulling back just enough that Anissa can see her smile.

“He’s asleep. He’s also old. _So_ old.”

She isn’t entirely clear how, but clothes start coming off, and Anissa puts her aching hands on Grace’s bare hips for the first time. They fit there perfectly, if she does say so herself.

“Fuck, you’re so—how are these _real?”_ Grace is squeezing her traps with both hands, and even though it makes the tired muscles burn, Anissa smirks up at her.

“You remember that time, when I worked out so much that I almost ruined a really good thing? That’s how.” She tenses when the artist shifts her weight, aggravating her sore quads, and it does not go unnoticed.

“Is… I’m sorry, is this even safe?” Biting her lip, Grace leans back slowly to look at the bruises blooming around Anissa’s ribs. Long fingers drift testingly over the discolored skin there, and it does _really fucking hurt,_ but she stops Grace from climbing off of her with a hand on her thigh.

“Wait, wait. Just, careful with that side, and I’ll use my left hand, and it’s all good, I promise.” She can hear that she sounds just a hair desperate, but… The truth is, she’s wanted this since the moment the door to Apartment 203 swung open the first time.

After a beat, Grace chuckles and lifts her hands back to Anissa’s shoulders, steadying herself to lean down and capture her lips in another kiss.

In spite of her aches and bruises, Anissa’s body comes alive under Grace’s touch, at the glide of their skin together and the sounds the artist is making as Anissa kisses along her collarbone. Grace might make a big deal about the fighter’s body, but underneath a layer of softness, she can feel the firm strength that’s required to hang from a pole by one leg, ten feet in the air, and Anissa’s breath catches when those thighs tighten around her hips.

The couch creaks and whines, but Anissa’s quickly too engrossed in Grace to care, especially with the way she’s arching her back and rolling her hips against her. Her dark hair’s falling out of her ponytail, lips parted, though she mostly manages to stay quiet as Anissa moves in her, driving her to the edge and straight over it. The fighter’s right hand holds her up with an iron grip on her waist until the aftershocks fade, but then even her champion’s strength gives out, and Grace slides out of her lap, then to her knees between Anissa’s bent legs, and the boxer’s fingers tangle in her hair.

Later, when their breathing returns to normal, Grace curls over her again, legs to one side and resting her head on Anissa’s shoulder. The air in the room finally settles, and some of her aches have loosened under nature’s pain reliever, but her overarching feeling is a sense of calm, for the first time in a very long time. Lynn’s talking to her again. She’s on the board in the boxing world. Grace is dozing quietly against her chest.

But eventually, between the warmth of the their skin and the day she’s had, Anissa knows she’s risking falling asleep naked on her uncle’s couch, so she kisses the black hair under her chin and whispers, “Grace?”

“Hmm?”

At first, she’d just going to say something about going upstairs, but an irresistible joke pops into her mind first, and she deadpans, “So, uh… Now you really know I got hands _like that_ though, right?”

Grace’s responding laugh vibrating into her ribcage sends a heavy warmth through the Anissa’s limbs, even when the artist murmurs, “How are you so hot and _so_ corny?”

“You like it,” challenges Anissa, and the artist doesn’t object. “C’mon. My room’s upstairs.”

Anissa tries not to think too hard about how difficult it is to make her way up said stairs, and a worried Grace puts an arm around her back, helps support her weight until they topple exhaustedly into the guest bed.

When she wakes up at a luxurious _8_ :02 a.m., Anissa’s admittedly disappointed to find Grace isn’t there. Her cynical side is grumbling that she’s fled the premises, but the boxer finds her downstairs with Gambi as he cooks something on a pan.

“There she is,” greets the old man brightly. “Want some toast?”

“I’m good, thanks Unc,” she replies as she meets Grace’s borderline feline smile. “And good morning to you. Cooking or looking?”

“Lookin’ you up,” says the artist before returning to her phone.

“What, why? I’m right here. In full technicolor 3D.” Yawning, Anissa grabs a box of cereal and pours it into a bowl, then adds milk.

She’s no more than four bites into her breakfast when the temperature of the room crashes, and Anissa looks up to find Grace frowning intently back at her. _Code Blue._

“What’s up?” she asks cautiously, setting down her spoon.

“You have something to tell me?”

 _Fuck._ One of the most feared combinations of words in the universe. Gambi turns and gives his fighter a _poor kid_ expression, but then goes right back to the business of his breakfast.

The artist sets her phone down, and it’s showing an ESPN tweet with a shortlink and a picture of Anissa alongside one of Jefferson Pierce. The text reads: _“CAN YOU BELIEVE? A PIERCE BACK IN BOXING?”_

When she still doesn’t speak, Grace prompts, “Is this for real? Your _father_ was _Jefferson Pierce?”_

Truth be told, Anissa hadn’t been expecting that particular biographic detail to be the catalyst behind Grace’s change in mood. The boxer _wants_ to say something useful or offer any of the many, many reasons that she doesn’t like talking about Jefferson Pierce—she really, _truly_ does—but at the hurt in Grace’s eyes, she’s panicking, and instead just continues to sit with her jaw working silently.

“Wow, okay. You know what? It’s fine. I gotta go pick up Hanh.”

 _No. Nonono._ “Grace, wait. Don’t just leave,” she calls hoarsely, but the artist is already throwing her bag over her shoulder and heading for the door.

The front door closes, and after a beat, Gambi turns from the oven again, an egg and bacon sandwich on his plate. His expression is first and foremost sympathetic. “Maseo. He would want the loss for Katana to look less embarrassing, maybe called up some LA gyms for oppo research, leaked it to reporters. Losing to a Pierce is way better than losing to a random rookie.” Gambi stares at her like he’s waiting for something for a few seconds, then raises his eyebrows. “Kid, if you like this girl, and I think you do, I would _highly_ recommend a romantic chasedown right about now, yeah?”

Anissa’s out of her seat so fast it falls over behind her. She darts out the door as Gambi warns not to pull a muscle and sprints to the sidewalk. Grace is more than halfway down the block, and although she’s walking briskly, Anissa runs a six-minute mile—she catches up quickly.

“I didn’t _lie,_ Grace,” she says, panting slightly.

“A sin of omission,” retorts the artist, and honestly Anissa is just relieved she’s responding. “You told me your dad was just some fighter, not that he was _the_ most famous fighter who ever lived. He’s a damn social justice _icon.”_

“People look at me different when they know. They look at Jefferson different, too.”

“I’m not _people,_ Anissa. I don’t care about that shit, but I do care about you keeping things from me.” Grace suddenly plants her heels to stop so abruptly that the boxer nearly crashes into her. “And I’m not saying we’re suddenly married just because we had sex, but I have a _kid._ I won’t waste my time with stupid jock games.”

“Whoa-whoa-whoa, listen, listen.” Anissa follows when Grace keeps walking, getting shoulder-checked by passersby as she tries to stay at her side. “You’re right. I’m serious, you’re right. And I promise you, I am not trying to play games with you. I wouldn’t do that.”

Grace levels a thin-lipped, disbelieving look at her.

“C’mon, this is—we didn’t get nearly enough time to talk last night. Just hear me out. It’s one hundred percent honesty and disclosure from me, from now on, okay?”

“Fine. So Jefferson’s wife, she’s not your mom? That’s the concern?”

“Right, Jefferson had an affair with my mom. He died before I was born, and she died when I was young.” They come to an intersection and have to pause, finally giving Anissa the chance to hold the artist’s gaze as she goes on, “I bounced around foster homes, fought and stole my way in and out of juvie. Lynn took me in when she found out I existed, treated me like one of her own. Anything else?”

Grace just looks at her for a long time, inscrutable. People step around them on the sidewalk when they remain in place even after the crossing signal changes, and they get a couple grumbled curses thrown in their direction. Eventually, the other woman sighs and shakes her head.

“Another truth, then. When I’m around you, I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. Tell me you don’t feel the same way about me.”

The artist pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezing shut. “You can’t just… you can’t _summon me_ after weeks of silence and say stuff like that.”

“It’s my truth, Grace.”

There’s a moment where she thinks Grace is just going to leave, but instead, the artist crosses her arms and moves closer. “No, I can’t _control_ myself when I’m with you, Anissa.”

“I know, I feel the s—“

“Just, let me get this out, okay?” Grace releases shuddering breath. “My parents sucked. They weren’t exactly the most present people, and I learned a long time ago to just depend on myself, to not let anyone in. When I got pregnant by a one night mistake, I decided that that was the perfect arrangement, and it’s just been me and Hanh against the world ever since. My little family unit. I was happy with that.”

Anissa’s chest clenches, and she smooths a hand down the artist’s arm, but waits for her to continue.

“And then, _you_ moved into my building, and everything changed. Not hearing from you made me…” The artist bites her lip and turns her eyes to the ground, pensive, before looking back at her to finish, “If you can’t realize that you can do me real harm, then I _need_ you to stay away from me.”

That concept’s not unlike how things work in the ring—take a chance, get close, and risk getting hurt. Anissa has to take several deep breaths. She _hates_ this. Hates the fear in Grace’s expression, hates the way her father continues to fuck with her life in ways he never earned the right to do, and hates even more that the one hundred percent truth is, it’s really her own fuck up that’s led to this.

“Doing what I do, I don’t play games, either. I know how it looks that I dipped right when your kid came back, and that’s on me. But when I think about who I stay safe for out there, who I win for—there’s my family, my uncle, and then… there’s just you, Grace. I’m all in for you, and for Hanh, whenever you’re ready for that.”

The artist looks away, jaw flexing, and hoarsely replies, “What do you expect me to say to something like that?”

“I don’t want you to _say_ anything.” Anissa reaches for Grace’s hand and entwines their fingers, letting out a relieved breath when the artist squeezes back. “I just wanted you to know how I feel. Give me a chance to walk my talk, and I’ll show you.”

Brown eyes that turn gold in the bright morning light study her carefully. She feels more scrutinized than at any weigh in, like Grace is cutting her apart to examine and measure each piece for signs of a possible lie. That’s okay, though. The boxer knows she won’t find that evidence, because it doesn’t exist—one hundred percent honesty, she had said. She meant it.

Finally, when a man dressed like a NOLA-style Uncle Sam heckles them as he walks by, Grace’s expression shifts. She offers a muted smile, squeezes Anissa’s hand, and says, “You, uh… you do look like him, though. Like a little, tiny baby Jefferson Pierce. It’s uncanny.”

Anissa growls, pulling the woman into her arms as she starts to laugh. “You said that just to annoy me, huh? Last word gonna be your thing? I’ll show you ‘tiny baby’ Pierce.”

Grace actually squeals when Anissa spins her, feet completely leaving the ground, and the boxer then tosses her over her shoulder to carry her back down the street.

 

* * *

 

_LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA_

Jen is watching the news when Lynn gets home, and she can hear the sportscaster’s voice booming even in the kitchen:

_“...and our next topic is boxing. Relatively unknown fighter Anissa Washington easily handed the undefeated contender for the women’s light welterweight title a second-round loss. That’s not much of a headline, but as of this morning, anonymous sources have confirmed to ESPN and others that Washington is none other than the eldest daughter of Jefferson Pierce, the legendary world heavyweight champ known as Black Lightning.”_

She sighs and puts her keys on their wall-mounted hook. There are three total brushed gold hooks in a triangular pattern on the wall, one marked L, one marked J, and then the empty one—A.

_“Washington’s identity has seemingly been kept a secret because of the implications of an affair on Pierce’s character, and some are wondering if this development will damage the famous fighter’s legacy. Here to talk to us about that today is writer and podcaster Nichelle Smith. Nichelle, thoughts on whether the revelations about Washington harm Jefferson Pierce’s standing in the eyes of the world?”_

“Well… she made it on ESPN pretty quick, I’ll give her that,” sighs Jen as her mother enters the living room. The show has two boxes on each side showing the two people talking, and between them is a repeating clip from the end of Anissa’s fight with the Katana.

_“Peter, let me be very clear about this: This story won’t take away from the legacy of Jefferson Pierce. That’s not possible. Black Lightning was not only one of the greatest boxers of all time, but a man who used his greatness for good every chance he got.”_

“Damn right,” mutters Jen. The clip changes to one of Jefferson himself, battling Peter Gambi in their first fight.

_“People make mistakes, and let’s not forget that it was Lynn Stewart herself who raised Washington, in her own home, even after her husband passed. She could have left that child in the system, and no one would ever be the wiser about that choice or about the affair—but she didn’t, and now that same child is on the road to greatness. I think we could all take a page from Lynn Stewart’s book.”_

Lynn mentally gives Nichelle a high five. It’s somewhat unsettling to see a photo of herself about thirty years younger on a national broadcast, but it’s certainly not the first time it’s happened.

_“I think that this story speaks to a family that focuses on love, not—quite frankly—tawdry gossip.”_

_“That’s a good point, Nichelle. But outside all of that, is Washington as good of a boxer as her dad?”_

_“Only time will tell, Peter, because this first big time bout wasn’t a clean win, but for her to come out of the gates at this level is still impressive.”_

The screen clicks off, and Lynn startles.

“It’s okay, Mom,” says Jen as she leans over to touch her mother’s hand. “Really. Even ESPN says so.”

“How’s… the Internet?” Lynn asks stiffly, deciding to make a stop at the bar cart under their thousand-gallon aquarium built into the wall.

“Ooh, it’s brutal. Definitely stay away for few days, but they’ll find a new soul to suck soon.” Jen sounds cheery, despite the situation, and Lynn suspect her youngest is putting on a show for her sake.

“And you? Are you all right, kids at school saying anything to you?”

“Benefit of being a senior is you’re the biggest baddie on campus, and your classmates are too busy trying to be as adult and woke as possible.”

“Must be a generation thing,” sighs Lynn, who had endured some knowingly sympathetic looks and many a sincere _How are you?_ at the clinic today.

“The thing is, I think you’re expecting me to act like this is the first time I found out, but I’ve _been knowing_ since I was, like, a baby, and all our friends do too. This is just everyone else being late to the party.”

Lynn supposes she’s right, but she still takes a healthy swig of her martini. Strangely, the main thing she’s felt all day? Pride, in both of her daughters, each of them brilliant, empathetic women who’ve handled the recent developments ten times better than Lynn herself. She takes strength in that knowledge and straightens her spine, smiling at her youngest as she says: “The only good part of Anissa leaving is we don’t have to be concerned about her diet anymore. How does pizza sound?”

“Pizza? In the Pierce house?”

“Unless you’d prefer—“

Jen already has her phone out and some type of app pulled up. “Don’t play, Ma, we’re getting three mediums so I can get my heart’s desire of toppings.”

 

* * *

 

_DEVON, ENGLAND_

The castle had been purchased at foreclosure auction, but its clearance pricetag did nothing to reduce its visual opulence. They’d pointedly rejected the Victorian and Gothic aesthetics of most castle-owners in the UK in favor of a more industrial, graphic vibe. Exposed pipes and beams rule the look of each room, including the 2,000 square foot library they kept solely for the purpose of conducting business meetings and interviews in an intimidatingly large space, crowded with leather-bound tomes against metal and glass decor.

Since Tori Whale’s arrest for running around the streets of London with a handgun, the subsequent trial, and the sentencing to nearly a decade behind bars… the opulent Whale Manor had been quieter than usual. There were less visitors, less “salesmen” coming by with “the greatest opportunity” the Whales would ever hear, less free samples, and so much more silence. Riding Ronda Rousey’s wave of support for women in a “man’s sport”, Tori and Tobias had successfully leveraged an objectively spotless record and a resonant childhood story into an empire that didn’t just involve boxing, but also athletic wear, gym equipment, and the licensing of their name or faces for various fitness projects.

But even their diversified portfolio had slowed down since the boxer’s fall began, and Tobias was worried. The only good news of the day (and week, and month, and year) is that he has an idea.

Tori’s scrolling on her iPad Pro when Tobias finds her in the library, and he slaps the morning’s paper over the device. “What, Tobi?”

“Read.”

Though she gives him a solid glare, Tori glances at the headline, and then back up. “What about her?”

“That’s Pierce blood. She’s been boxing royalty since her daddy squirted her into her mum.”

“Gross, Tobias.” The boxer rolls her eyes. “What’s your point?”

“You’re going to fight her.”

“Uh, no. I’m not. She’s what, twelve?”

“You will fight her.”

“She barely deserves to attend one of my fights, much less—”

“Tori,” Tobias growls, slamming his hand on the table. “I don’t care what you think, that’s why I’m not _asking_ you to fight her. You lost us _millions_ when you broke Looker’s pretty white face, and this roof over your family’s head is going to go back to auction when you get out, unless we do something _now.”_

Tori’s jaw clicks shut, and she spends a few more moments eyeballing the picture of a triumphant young Anissa Washington, gloves raised while The Katana is laid out on the mat behind her at their match last month. Tori can tell she’s taller than the girl, with better reach and way more experience on top. Royalty or no, she’s certain she would snuff out the new star. It might even look cruel. She glares up at her brother.

He’s unphased. “It’s not the quality of the fight that will get people to buy tickets. It’s the story, the name, the gossip. And that story ends with you extinguishing this Jefferson Pierce gender-swapped reboot’s career before it ever gets started, defeating Peter Gambi’s last stand.”

“No one gives a fuck about Peter Gambi anymore. I don’t want to be remembered like this,” mutters the fighter, closing her eyes.

“They’ll remember your record. They’ll remember what you overcame before the pigs took you down and that no fighter, with gun or glove, ever did. This won't change any of that.”

Tori gives the newsprint grayscale Anissa Washington one more withering look. “Fine. Call the colonies.”

 

* * *

 

_NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA_

For the ninety-seventh time, Anissa adjusts her shirt and checks her pocket for her phone. After a morning of indecision, she’d landed on meeting Hanh wearing a simple black tank top and floral print bermuda shorts, which admittedly used to fit better when her quads were just semi-pro sized.

Grace had given her directions to where they’d be meeting with just a cryptic warning accompanying it: “If you think you’ve gone too far, you probably haven’t.”

And fuck if it doesn’t feel like she’s walking into the type of horror movie where someone who looks like Anissa dies first as she pulls into a gravel patch in front of a home overgrown with kudzu from top to bottom. There’s boggy swamp on all sides, and the air feels even thicker here than it does in the city. The smells are different, slightly less unpleasant, and she tries not to think too hard about what’s potentially going to happen to her shoes today. This is her, showing up, twenty-four-seven, for Grace.

The artist’s car is parked on the other side of a mulch-covered drive, and as she peers at the red-and-black carseat in the back, her stomach tightens, but this is the whole point of today. The Rubicon is ready for Anissa to cross: Meeting The Kid.

She’s halfway up the ramp to the navy blue front door when it swings open, and Quang is standing there, waving and smiling at her. “Anissa! Welcome to my home.”

“Hey Q,” greets the fighter, shaking his hand firmly when she reaches him. “How’ve you been?”

“Luckily, quite boring,” he says with a mild shrug. “Business is good, and so is my health.”

“Sounds like the dream.” Anissa laughs as the older man examines the thick scab the fight with Katana had left on her brow, where the flesh had split under those red gloves.

“Grace and Hanh are out back.” He moves aside, and Anissa steps into a warm living room decorated in too much red and gold, with planters overflowing with green all over the place, as if the invasive ivy outside has infiltrated the whole house. Loan is sitting on a LazyBoy watching what looks like an Asian soap opera, maybe, and she gives Anissa a quick, toothless smile before going right back to it.

“I was thinking about getting a new…”

Her eyes catch sight of movement out the back window, and she abruptly finds herself looking out at Grace as the woman lifts a chunky, tiny human into her arms.

If Quang is speaking, Anissa doesn’t hear, and the clipped, unfamiliar sounds of the television fade away, too. Grace is smiling a smile that’s brighter than any Anissa has ever seen as she’s blowing raspberries against the toddler’s cheeks. The artist says something muffled by the wall while she shifts Hanh to one hip, and then they nuzzle noses.

“Anissa?”

Quang is saying her name in a way that suggests he’s been repeating it, and the boxer clears her throat as she tears her eyes away. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

The older man gives her a pat on the shoulder, looking sympathetic. “Hanh is not the easiest baby to win over. Gifts go a long way.”

It’s then that Anissa notices he’s holding up a small, pinkish-orange cellophane bag. Inside sit two cookies or crackers, pale and smooth. She accepts it by the very corner of the package, like it’s precious, delicate cargo.

“Rice crackers,” explains Quang. “Save them for the right moment. Now, let’s go meet the queen, hmm?”

Anissa’s brain is immediately obsessing over what he means by “ _the right moment”,_ but she instinctively knows that he doesn’t mean _right now_ and shoves the treat in her pocket just before following him onto the back patio.

“Hey, you made it,” greets Grace, and to the fighter’s surprise, she immediately leans in for a peck on the lips, touching Anissa’s shoulder with her free hand.

“Just barely,” she replies, shaking her head, as she adds to their host, “I don’t know how ya’ll live out here with the _Deliverance_ vibe I got driving up.”

“Shotguns,” says Quang solemnly, and Anissa chooses in that moment to ignore the giant question mark in her mind over that response.

When the boxer looks back at Grace, Hanh is staring intently back at her with big, suspicious brown eyes. It’s almost comical contrasted against the child’s cherry pink overalls and white shirt with a smiling daisy embroidered on the front, but Anissa knows better than to tease at first blush, and she just gives a little wave hello.

“Hanh, this is Anissa. Anissa, this is Hanh,” says Grace, pointing between them.

“Hi there, nice to meet you,” greets the fighter in a voice that she _knows_ is embarrassingly high pitched.

Hanh gives her a dubious up-and-down, and then promptly shoves her face against her mother’s shoulder with a tiny _“hmmph.”_

It leaves Anissa prepared to panic that she’s already completely blown it, but Grace squeezes the fingers on the fighter’s shoulder to get her attention, offering a sympathetic look as she says something in Vietnamese to the toddler. Hanh mumbles back in what might’ve been in English, but sounds largely unintelligible to Anissa nonetheless, and Grace shrugs.

“She says she’s shy today,” explains the artist.

“Oh. Oh! Well, that’s okay. Some days, I’m shy, too.”

This gets exactly zero response from the shy kid in question, but as a consolation, Grace offers her a smile brimming with so much open affection that Anissa’s cheeks warm. They start walking towards a small set of stairs on the edge of the patio.

“So, did you figure out why we dragged you out here yet?” asks the artist with a waggle of her eyebrows.

“Uh, hard no. If Hanh wasn’t here, I’d be pretty much expecting a kidnap-murder type situation.”

Quang leads them off the patio and towards a small wooden dock with a metal motorboat tied to it.

“Fishing?” guesses the fighter, examining what looks like a table bolted to the middle of the craft.

“Close. We’re checking crawfish traps. I figure you need to explore some of the bayou outside of the city, if you’re planning on staying. There’s plenty to see.”

Grace hands Hanh to Quang, who’s standing in the boat, and it’s the first time Anissa has gotten a really clear look at the kid when he sets her down. The first thing the former PA notices is the mild vitiligo that’s left white patches on Hanh’s hands, with one moderately sized spot overlapping the corner of her eyebrow. She’s somewhat petite for her age group, but otherwise looks like a typical toddler, ready to fight the world and take lots of naps.

Once that’s out of the way, Anissa’s just struck by how much of Grace she can see in the kid, even with the chubby cheeks, down to the knitted-brow glare she’s directing at Anissa this very moment. Her shiny black hair is… far be it from the boxer to question a parent’s choices, but there’s no way to describe Hanh’s haircut as anything other than a bowl cut.

“She’s pretty cute, huh?” asks Grace from closer than Anissa had expected, while Quang fits Hanh with a tiny green life jacket.

“Beyond,” confirms the fighter, chuckling. “Those _cheeks._ Nice work.”

“Oh, just wait until meltdown time. _Then_ tell me how cute she is.”

Anissa looks over when she processes the tension in Grace’s voice. The artist’s face is tight with nerves, her eyes glued to the boat, and Anissa snakes an arm around her waist to pull her in for a side-hug. “What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing, nothing.” Grace huffs when the boxer just raises her eyebrows. “She’s been fussy since she got up this morning. Just don’t want to scare you away.”

“Scare _me_ away?” chuckles the fighter. “I used to work in a family clinic. Ever spent eight hours sticking small children with vaccine needles? You see some shit.”

Grace is smiling again now, and she leans in for a quick kiss before tugging Anissa towards the boat.

“Oh, and just so we’re clear, ya’ll _do_ know there are gators in this swamp, right? That’ll eat kids and adults?” says the fighter as she steps into the vessel carefully.

“This an area with a lot of tour boats, and those guys feed ‘em hot dogs all day long, so they leave us alone,” says Grace, letting Anissa help her into the boat. “Just keep your hands and feet inside the craft at all times.”

Anissa’s _mostly_ kidding when she follows up with, “But is there like a knife in here or something, just in case? Right?”

“Shotgun,” grunts Quang in that same creepily stony tone, but it does make Anissa feel better this time.

Hanh is perched on her mother’s lap, brown eyes sweeping back and forth as they shove off from the dock and coast quietly through the shallows, deeper into the trees that rise straight out of water, until they come to a moderately large, open waterway.

Quang turns the boat left and gently picks up speed. He offers the occasional tour guide-type trivia, but mostly they spend the slow, smooth ride pointing out wildlife. Anissa’s doesn’t even try to hide her excited gasps and disbelieving noises as they glide past families of boars, a few cranes, turtles of all shapes and sizes, and of course, _plenty_ of gators. Sometimes Anissa doesn’t see what Hanh is excitedly gesturing at until the ancient reptile is just feet away, nothing but nostrils and eyes warning of the beast below. Having grown up in the city of cities, Anissa’s used to packs of wild dogs, feral cats, and the occasional lost parrot, but this feels like an entirely different planet… and she could definitely get used to it.

Eventually, Quang brings them to a stop at the edge of the waterway, where a neon yellow plastic flag is stapled to a tree whose branches hang from the shore to out over the water.

“And now for the goods,” says Grace as she sets Hanh on the seat next to Anissa.

After exchanging nervous looks with each other, Anissa and Hanh both watch with rapt attention as Quang grabs a thin rope tied to the tree with the flag. He tugs up, looping the length around his arm as he goes, until a mesh cylinder pops free of the algae-covered water. As liquid drains out of it, a writhing mass of fish and crustaceans are left behind, and now the boxer sees what the table with the raised sides is for. When Quang dumps the haul onto it, he and Grace get to sorting, tossing the fish back in the water and dropping the crawfish into a barrel below. It only takes a few minutes, and then Quang’s revving the motor again.

“Think you can help us out with some muscles for this next part?” asks Grace with a dangerously persuasive grin. As if Anissa would ever be able to resist one of Grace’s teasing challenges anyway.

She certainly doesn’t in this case, naturally, and ends up with her forearm and hand wrapped in a thick, _heavy_ metal chain, with the other end dropped into the green-brown water below. Grace is stealing pointed glances at her while she’s risking career-ending injury for mud bugs, and so Anissa focuses hard on a) not getting ripped out of the boat by her arm and b) flexing said arm whenever the artist looks.

Under Quang’s direction, she controls the depth and location of the chain to negotiate sharp turns and tight spaces, stopping them like an anchor every few minutes to check another trap. By the time the older man announces they’re headed home, they’ve hauled two barrels of twitching red-brown crustaceans, and Anissa is trying to come up with what she’s going to tell Gambi when her arm is weak tomorrow. A battle for another time.

Luckily, she is relieved of duty when they make it back to the main waterway, and the fighter plops down into her seat with a barely-muffled groan, massaging her arm tenderly.

By this point, Hanh is also getting antsy, and she eventually wriggles her way free of her mother’s arms to wobble closer to the barrels of crawfish. They hit a bump, and Anissa moves before she even realizes it; she grabs hold of the back of Hanh’s lifejacket, preventing the kid from falling to the floor, but also, apparently in Hanh’s mind, restricting her movement. Anissa lets go immediately, but the toddler is already tipping over into a meltdown about it, face screwing up and reddening—but then the fighter remembers her ace in the hole.

With the quickness of her bout jab, Anissa rips the rice crackers from her pocket and holds the package up to Hanh. It gets the child’s attention like cats to a can opening, stopping the impending tantrum in its tracks… for the moment.

“You want a snack?” she asks, ducking down to the toddler’s level. “I heard you like these.”

Hanh grabs for it, but stops with her stubby fingers on the plastic when Grace says something in Vietnamese in a clearly warning tone. The toddler looks momentarily affronted, but then seems to decide the treat is worth it. She tilts her chin up to Anissa and says sullenly, “Snack, please?”

“Of course! You need me to open it?”

“Mhmm.” When the fighter presses the two crackers into the toddler’s hand, she automatically gets a much more authentic, but just as soft, “Thank you, Nissy.”

And yeah, she gets punched in the face for a living, but the overwhelming cuteness of that tiny voice and huge, familiar brown eyes have warmth tugging at Anissa’s, threatening to bloom into moisture. She clears her throat and looks away, but feels Grace’s hand slip into hers, giving a squeeze, a few seconds later.

The snack gets them back home without further incident, and Anissa’s legs are a little wobbly as she steps back onto the dock. A life at sea is probably not for her.

As soon as she’s out of the boat, Grace pulls Anissa into a long hug, just sighing deeply against her neck. The fighter mouths ‘thank you’ over Grace’s shoulder to a self-satisfied Quang, and then kisses the artist’s cheek.

Hanh passes out in Loan’s bedroom not five minutes after they get back, and it turns out the old woman hasn’t been idle while they were gone. An actual feast is spread out on a four-person, circular dining table, and Anissa couldn’t accurately name a single dish on it except for the bowls of rice, but it all smells _heavenly._

Loan and Grace are conversing in Vietnamese as Anissa considers the offerings carefully and Quang gets drinks for the guests. She can deduce a pot in the middle is a curry, with slices of fluffy French bread right next to it for dipping. There’s a couple plates of separated Romaine lettuce leaves next to a tumeric yellow crepe-like thing, and then what looks like several variations of something wrapped in a white, almost gelatinous covering, not _quite_ a dumpling.

“You’re not cutting now, right babe?” Grace’s voice switching to English is momentarily confusing, but Anissa nods. She’s secretly proud of the artist for throwing out lingo so casually; the boxer won’t go back to her cutting diet until the next bout is scheduled, and she knows her target weight.

“Nah, so let me try all of this before I can’t. It smells so good, Miss Loan. Thank you.”

The old woman gives her another silent smile, and Grace starts pointing out dishes with her chopsticks. Anissa’s right about the curry, which she’s warned contains bone-in chicken, and the she isn’t far off on the crepes, stuffed with meats and bean sprouts. When Grace gets to the not-dumpling items, the artist grabs one for herself and illustrates what she’s saying as she explains, “These rice pillow guys are stuffed with mushrooms and pork, and then you just give ‘em a nice bath in fish sauce.”

As it turns out, Anissa’s particularly fond of the “rice pillow guys”, and Grace quietly piles a couple on her plate every time she notices the fighter is out. She spends most of the meal talking about, of all things, soccer with Quang, who she’s starting to guess is a bit of a gambler. Between the heady satisfaction of a big meal, the ache of a day’s work in her bones, and the way the Grace occasionally reaches over to dab at the corner of her mouth with a napkin, fingertips and eyes lingering on her face, Anissa can’t think of any reason to do anything else with her free time for the rest of her life.

But, the actuality of her life goes on anyway. She’s trying to get out of an arm wrestling challenge from a slightly drunk Quang, who had four Heinekens over dinner, when her phone rings with Gambi’s tone—a godforsaken thing called Motivation by Sum 41 that never fails to stop her in her tracks or jolt her out of sleep, chosen for precisely that purpose.

“Hey Uncle Gambi, what’s up?” she answers as she steps away from the table.

“Hey, kid, sorry to bother you today,” he says with a sigh. “How’s the uh… other kid?”

“Napping. Very cute. Easily bribed by crackers.”

“Ah, youth,” chuckles the old man before clearing his throat. “Listen, I uh… Need to talk to you. I just got off the phone with Tobias Whale.”

 

* * *

 

It’s four days before Tobias makes it stateside, and without Gambi saying it, Anissa has the distinct impression that the fact that _he’s_ coming to _them_ is a major early win for Team Washington. They meet at Gambi’s restaurant, and Tobias practically wears a mask for how far his hoodie is pulled down and how big his sunglasses are as he walks into the dining area. Gambi has the wait staff, who are setting up to open for dinner service, bring a fancy bottle of bourbon to share as they begin the negotiations.

“I’ll get right to it: My sister needs to fight in the next six months, and we’ve already beaten everybody,” begins the Brit, stiffly.

Anissa’s already so hyped that she feels like she’s going to come out of her seat. Gambi is a legend, but one to whom she has a mortal connection. Tobias Whale is like a young god ruling from the heavens. She manages to keep her voice calm as she asks, “You want me to fight Tori?”

“I think it would be a very wise move. This Katana bout put you on the map, and we can help you keep the momentum going. People are paying attention.”

“To the fight, or the father?” interrupts Gambi with a deepening frown.

“Does it matter, in the end?” counters Tobias. _“Your_ presence in the corner has certainly helped, Champ.”

After a beat, Anissa collects what she’s learned in the Big Easy and turns to Gambi, instead of answering Whale, like she normally would. She asks her trainer, “Do _you_ think I’m ready?”

Gambi hesitates, which she reads as a sign that he’s more open to consider it than not. “Anissa, this guy came here because he’s chasing a sure thing with an easy, big price tag.”

“That’s not true,” argues the visitor.

“Yeah, it is,” Gambi fires back, with the finality of a preacher speaking gospel truth.

Tobias leans forward as a frown takes over his pale face. “This could be my sister’s last fight, ever. I want to make it count, and I think you, Anissa, can put up a good show. And, on that note, we _would_ need you to box under the name Pierce. Just a formality.”

Anissa huffs and leans back in her chair. She knew someone would pull this one day if she kept winning, but that doesn’t mean she’s got an answer yet. Far from it. “What if I say no?”

“Without the name, there’s no fight. It’s a non-starter.”

The boxer and her trainer must both look ready to turn him down, because he quickly adds:

“Okay, okay. Why don’t the two of you take a couple days to consider? It’s a good deal, and I’ll be in town for the week on some other business. There are pro fighters out there who’d give their right tit for this opportunity. Think about it.”

 

* * *

 

That night, after Hanh’s down for the count, so to speak, Grace is in her armchair in the living room of 203, Anissa between her knees on the floor as the fighter shows her how she tends to her braids. The television is on some SVU rerun, but it’s muted while they also talk over the Whale offer.

“Kinda scary, I guess,” Grace is saying as Anissa watches her face through the standing mirror on the floor next to her. “She could _really_ hurt you. They’ve done, like, Mythbusters studies, and she’s got perfect punching arms. Like a Michael Phelps for boxing.”

“I know. Rumor has it she concussed Arani Caulder so bad she had to retire.” Anissa chews her lip. “So yeah, maybe she lays me out, but I think I have a shot. I _really_ do. And with Gambi in my corner? He won’t let it go too far.”

They let the thought simmer for a few minutes as Anissa works, twisting and separating, occasionally narrating what she’s doing while Grace leans over her, peering intently at her fingers and occasionally asking questions. Her training schedule has made it near impossible to find time to get her braids redone, so this lesson is part necessity, part because Grace is the only person this side of the Mississippi she’ll trust enough to help her maintain them, once she’s trained up and gone through a full apprenticeship period, of course.

Eventually, Anissa’s mind moves on to her other, more deal-breaking objection to the proposal. She lets her arms drop and leans back, smiling as the artist’s hands slide over her shoulders and massage lightly. “I can’t fight as Pierce. It’s not my name to just take like that. And, I want to make it on my own merits anyway.”

“Yeah? Kinda funny way of showing it.”

Frowning, Anissa turns her head slightly and sets down the spray bottle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just saying, Jefferson and Gambi were _famously_ best friends, and you moved your life all the way down here for that connection. It feels like you’re trying to tap into some of what your dad left behind. It’s not a bad thing, nothing to be ashamed of. That’s your history, your birthright. What are you afraid of?”

Grace’s low words are as soothing as the fingers pressing circles into her back. Anissa’s knee-jerk reaction is to make a joke being afraid of nothing, but… it’s just Grace here, in the dim light of the warm living room, and she finds she doesn’t even _want_ to deflect. So Anissa leans her cheek against the artist’s knee and says, “I’m afraid of taking on the name and losing. I’m afraid people will call me a fraud, say I’m either using or embarrassing my dad. Fake Lightning, something like that.”

Grace drapes her arms around Anissa’s neck, leaning forward until her lips are near her ear. “Focus on what’s true. You love to fight, and you’re good at it. Plus, it makes you happy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re Jefferson Pierce’s daughter, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So then, use the name. It’s _yours.”_

Anissa isn’t sure if Grace knows exactly how deeply this topic cuts, how raw and vulnerable it makes her feel to vocalize, or even hear, these things—but she does know the conflictedness and turmoil she usually feels around this is just a simmering hurt in her chest, rather than the usual explosion, and it seems to dim further when she twists her neck around and tugs Grace down for a kiss.

Later, when her hair is more or less done and they’ve spent some quality time messing up the bedsheets, Anissa curls against Grace’s back, peppering lazy kisses along the beginning of the dragon tattoo on the artist’s shoulder. Hanh’s monitor is mercifully silent, so she’s disappointed when the warm body against her chest pulls away.

“Noo,” she complains, flopping forward on the bed. “Cold.”

 _“Wow…_ big bad boxer, huh?” The artist dances away from Anissa’s attempt to catch her wrist, chuckling. “I’ll be right back. I forgot, I have something I want to show you.”

“Ooh. Is it… _lace?”_

Grace probably rolls her eyes at that, but she’s pulling an oversized shirt over her head as she replies, “Sorry to burst your bubble, but it’s an entirely wholesome surprise.”

Then the artist disappears into the darkened hallway, and Anissa begrudgingly visits the bathroom to pee and wraps her hair before diving back under the covers. She doesn’t open her eyes when she hears Grace come in, but then soft lips press against her cheek.

“This still requires looking,” murmurs Grace, sweetly, near her ear.

Anissa pops open one eye, and then sits up immediately.

The artist is holding a thick paper poster, printed with a finished version of the sketch in Grace’s office, from their unofficial first date. This time, the superhero version of Anissa is in full color, her yellow and black supersuit rendered in stunning detail under a darkening orange and purple sky. She’s standing in her battle pose now, fists hovering near her face, and behind her is a French Quarter street featuring a trail of passed-out baddies with swirls and stars above their heads. One of them looks like Katana in her red outfit, and Anissa’s pretty sure Looker is in there too.

Underneath the scene, Grace has painted a bronze plaque, featuring one word handwritten in a stylized, serif font: THUNDER.

 

* * *

 

Anissa jogs from Grace’s apartment to the restaurant the next morning, and she finds Gambi checking the overnight order with glasses perched on the tip of his nose and a clipboard in his hand.

“Good morning,” he greets, cautiously, as she settles at the bottom of the stairs. “What’s up?”

“Talked to Grace about this last night, spent _a lot_ of time thinking.” Anissa rests her elbows on her knees and meets his eyes. “You don’t want me to do this, right?”

Gambi frowns and removes his glasses, tucking them into the pocket of his linen vest. “I can think of better things to do than put yourself in this kind of danger, physically and mentally, yeah.”

“But _if_ we did do it… I would get it done. I want you to know that.”

“Mm,” grunts Gambi. “Well, she’s taller than you, she’s got a reach on you, and she’s got way, way more experience than you. She’s the champion, plain and simple. I don’t know if either of us is ready for it, but… I trust you, and I’ll be with you, whatever you decide.”

“I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have you in my corner, Unc,” says the fighter with her chin set. “But I do. So make the call.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.” Gambi begins to walk away, but he pauses and says over his shoulder. “Changing the last name?”

“Yeah. Anissa Pierce, it is.”

“Might as well change the nickname, too, if you want. Hollywood’s are kinda dime a dozen—”

There’s no hesitation in her heart when Anissa answers, “Tell them it’s Thunder.”

Gambi’s eyes widen, first with surprise, and then a sort of pride, and that’s exactly what she’d hoped for. “Thunder. I like it. Suits you.”

As the old man heads to the office, Anissa jumps down the remaining steps and punches the air in a flurry.

In three months, she’s fighting the _world_ champion. It’s warrior clan rules; if she wins, she’ll be the 2-0 world champion whether anyone likes it or not. She cups two hands over her mouth and bellows up the stairs to the street: “I’m fighting the Killer Whale!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just sincerely hope this does justice to the characters because I love them so much. 
> 
> Here are some food points of reference:
> 
> The Bribe: [Bin Bin Rice Crackers](https://www.amazon.com/Bin-Bin-Rice-Crackers-3-73-oz/dp/B0012XWYVC)  
> Crepe: [Bánh xèo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B%C3%A1nh_x%C3%A8o)  
> Rice Pillow Guys: [Bánh cuốn](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B%C3%A1nh_cu%E1%BB%91n)


	3. Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the big showdown: Whale v Pierce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the clicks/reads/kudos/comments! 
> 
> This chapter is set up differently than the last two; we're a bunch of vignettes here, until we get to the final match, and I hope it still works well. This is essentially what I consider a written version of the classic Rocky-universe training/time passing montage. There's A LOT OF FLUFF, and some angst, but really... for a boxing fic... the fluff.
> 
> Basically since the non-boxing stuff is pretty far off of Creed now, I just went where my little heart took me. 
> 
> Anissa's walk-on sequence inspired by [this post](https://moralezmiles.tumblr.com/post/170463670426/tryna-rain-tryna-rain-on-the-thunder-tell-the)
> 
> Enterprising boxing movie fans may also recognize some stuff from Girlfight in this chapter.

_NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA_

_**70 Days to Match** _

The news drops like a mushroom cloud, at least for a boxer who, up until not too long ago, couldn’t convince a trainer to work with her, and Anissa finds herself occasionally recognized out on the street, mostly by her peers. The team’s private gym has to hire security after a visit from a fire inspector, which dims the community vibe, but Gambi still invites kids after school to come watch her train in a roped off area with bleachers and free snacks.

Whereas the work leading up to Katana had been all about overall improvement, the training now focuses on sharpening her strengths and building resistances to Killer Whale’s particular style. The refugee-cum-world-champion isn’t an elegant fighter by any stretch, but she’s still faster than most and packs the meanest hook in the industry. She’d once participated in an MMA fight for an immigrants’ rights charity and knocked the jiu jitsu-specialized opponent out cold in the first thirty seconds—with one punch thrown. Anissa remembers watching that match in college, over pizza, and how her date that night, Chenoa, had huffed and complained about the evening’s entertainment for an hour beforehand.

At any rate, Gambi uses the MMA fight as a starting point to explain their strategy.

“Obviously, we’re gonna turn up the dial on all of your tertiary stuff, strength, conditioning, cardio. Especially that last one—I want you to forget that vehicles exist and use your feet everywhere you go, okay?” he’s going on as Anissa and Malia spar in the ring. “But that, and everything else we work on, is to stop Whale from beating the air out of your lungs or cracking your skull. You gotta be covered in armor, kid.”

Anissa gets a little too excited and nails Malia in the side when they’re supposed to be just warming up. She apologizes quickly before walking over to her trainer. “What about trying to cut down on getting hit, at all?”

“Ah! That’s where we’re gonna have some fun.” He says the last word in a way that suggests it will not, in fact, be any fun. “The more versatile you are, the better fighter you are. Padman?”

Malia’s father steps through the ropes, and Anissa wrinkles her nose at the length of elastic fabric in his hands, meant for restricting the width of your stance. He attaches a loop to each of her feet, and then whistles to his daughter to resume sparring. To Anissa, he explains, “On Mondays and Wednesdays from now until the bout, you’re a southpaw. What’s today?”

“Wednesday,” mutters Anissa, testingly shifting her stance. She hasn’t had to train with one of these in awhile, and it immediately feels awkward, like she’s a teenager watching jab tutorials on YouTube again.

Malia gives her a black eye for the first time in weeks that day.

_**60 Days to Match** _

“I don’t know, I think she just sees me as like, an annoying distraction. I have never had this problem before.”

From Anissa’s new Alexa Show, Lynn’s shaking her head as she stirs a bowl of cake batter. “She’s a baby, Anissa. You know she’s old enough to be distrustful. Probably just her personality.”

“Ma, you don’t understand—you know how Jen rolls her eyes when she thinks you’re being embarrassing?”

“Got one of those yesterday, in fact.”

“Okay, this kid _looks_ at me like that when I try all my usual tricks. Not like ‘oh, that’s a stranger, and I’m scared’, but ‘this bitch really thinks I’m amused by her shit.’”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lynn’s laughing so much at that, she has to put her mixing spoon down. “Anissa, really… Have you stopped to think maybe _you_ are giving her the weird vibes?”

_“Please,_ Mom, I cannot get into a vicious cycle of anxiety with a two-year-old.”

“Kids pick up on those things, you know that. If you are approaching her with a weird energy, she’s going to react accordingly. Just, you’ve gotta relax. I know how you get.”

“‘How I get’?”

“That’s what I said,” confirms her mother, resuming cake-making. “You think there’s a straight line to the end of everything, if you just strategize hard enough. People, including babies, just don’t work that way. You and I had some tough years.”

Anissa steps back over to the device, leaning down so her mom can see her face clearly. “I know. And you loved me through it all.”

“Still do. You were just a child going through change, and might I remind you that this baby is having to share her mother with someone for the first time. They notice.”

“Thanks, Ma.” Anissa kisses her fingertips, and then holds them close to the camera. “So stop being an uptight weirdo, that’s your advice?”

“And… buy that child something, like a stuffed animal, that’s exclusively associated with you to keep in the apartment.”

_“There_ it is, see? That’s why I come to you for these things,” laughs the fighter.

She sees Lynn’s attention swing to one side, and then Jen’s walking into the frame, dressed in workout clothes.

“Hey, Jen,” she greets as her sister notices the video call.

“Hey fam.” Jen drops her bookbag on the kitchen table and slips off her jacket. The teen narrows her eyes at the screen, shuffling closer. “Anissa… what are you wearing?”

“What? It’s…” The fighter looks down. “What, my hoodie?”

“A _Saints_ hoodie, sis? Where is your _loyalty?_ Nah—that’s it. Outta the family. Ma, back me up on this.”

“I’m not taking sides, but I _will_ say you were brought up in a loyal Raiders household.”

“It was _free!”_

“All the better to donate to someone who isn’t stabbing their sister in the heart by wearing it.”

_**56 Days to Match** _

“Are you… serious? I thought this was just an urban legend?”

“I _am_ a legend, and I’m real,” counters Gambi with a smirk. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m serious.”

Anissa sighs as she considers the dozen or so chickens minding their own business, going about their day completely innocently, leaving disgusting-smelling piles of muck on the ground. Her shoes had survived a swamp unscathed, so how ironic an end for them to now face _this_ in Gambi’s own backyard. Not that she didn’t have plenty more, including many a free pair arriving in the mail after the announcement of her match with Whale. It was the _principle_ of the thing.

“These fine ladies have done nothing wrong, and I’m just supposed to _grab_ them, Unc? What’s this gonna do that drills won’t, except get chicken shit all over me and upset your girls?”

“It’s a _mind_ thing,” sighs the trainer. “C’mon, it’s harder than it looks. Go on.”

“Fine.” Mouth pressed into a line, Anissa keeps eye contact with him as she stays still for a few seconds, waiting for a bird to move closer to her. She then leans down, ever so slowly, and gently picks up an unsuspecting hen pecking the ground near her feet. Its head shoots up, and it gives a squawking noise of discontent, but when Anissa tucks the animal under her arm in a firm hold, it quiets and just looks at Gambi, too. “Done.”

“You’re no fun,” he complains, but he easily picks up one of his chickens too, and Anissa swears she hears the old man call the hen “Brenda” as he walks away.

The shoes survive another day.

_**50 Days to Match** _

Anissa’s indulging some regular gym kids, doing pushups with two little ones on her back, when she hears Malia call, “Yo Anissa, come look at this.”

She lets the boy scramble off of her before standing and working the tension out of her shoulders. When she leans next to Malia at the edge of their practice ring, Anissa sees the older fighter’s looking at a long article.

Malia holds up the device as she reads out loud, “‘Fans have pointed out that rising star and boxing royalty Anissa Pierce isn’t just a hard right jab, she’s also got her PA license in California, and according to rumor, may be our next great out, black athlete’.”

“That’s rude, they shouldn’t write that stuff about people. How can I be out if it’s based on a rumor?” mutters Anissa, and Malia hums in mild agreement, but she can’t deny that the picture the article offers as proof, a screengrab of Grace kissing her in the ring after Katana fell, looks _pretty_ “out” and “wlw”.

“Kind of an interesting thought,” offers the older fighter with a sideways glance. “I mean, your dad was certainly an icon. People might expect that from you.”

“Me?” Anissa laughs, more of a snort, and shakes her head. “I’m no Jefferson Pierce.”

“But you care about other things than boxing, I know you do—and if someone’s shoving a microphone in your face, why not let them know you’re not here to play?”

It _is_ an interesting thought. Anissa has certainly attended her fair share of protests, less since going to boxing full time, and she’d always left feeling like she wished she could do _more._ Her father had spoken out, loudly and often, about topics like police brutality, anti-integration lingering in cities and school systems, and the violence of oppression against black bodies. Perhaps fighting wasn’t the only legacy of his that she could nurture and grow.

“Well, if they come ask me… I’ll tell them,” concludes the contender as Malia takes back her tablet.

“Speaking of that, have you made an official IG yet? Twitter?”

“Do I _look_ like I have time for an Instagram?”

“Just saying, if you want more free shoes and sponsorships, more eyes on your fights, _that’s_ how you get them. Hey Pop,” Malia calls the last part to Padman. “What’s your Snapchat handle?”

“OGPadguy,” the old man answers easily, and Anissa rolls her eyes when Malia looks back at her, as if that proves something. “I’ve got 2,000 followers.”

“See? What about your little sister, can she help you? She’s got it going on with her Stories.”

“You follow _Jen_ on Instagram? You don’t even know each other.”

“Well, for some reason we both love _you,_ so maybe lose some of that attitude. Do I follow y…? Of course I do.” Malia pins her with a look one might give a small, misbehaving child. “This is gonna be more work than I thought. Give me your email address and password… fuck it, just give me your whole phone.”

_**47 Days to Match** _

In response to the chicken chasing failure, Gambi schedules her next “unconventional” workout in a parking lot behind some kind of warehouse or storage space. Summer is in full swing, so she’s already soaked in sweat when the retired fighter opens one of the big cargo doors at the back of the building.

“Better,” she says, hands on hips.

Inside, the place looks like a post-apocalyptic wasteland. It’s actually a metal scrap processing plant, filled with old machines and chunks of cars, broken pipes and ancient sheet metal.

“You’ve had a tetanus shot, right?” asks the old trainer, hands on hips.

“Oh, I’m good, Unc. What’s the play?”

“People who’ve fought Whale say one of the hardest parts is hitting her—not in the sense of speed. When you _do_ hit her, it’s gonna be different than any human you’ve hit before. Let’s see what we can find to smash your hands into for awhile.”

At first, Anissa goes for ridiculous targets like an engine block and airplane propeller, but then Gambi has her drag a washing machine and an AC unit to a cleared area.

While she’s catching her breath, he keeps talking, “This isn’t just about the toughness of your hands. Katana was a sprint, but unless we get real lucky or unlucky, my money’s on Whale being a marathon. You’ve gotta be _precise,_ not with aim, but with your power.”

After wrapping her knuckles properly, Anissa squares up against the AC unit and gives it a tentative jab.

“Harder than that,” sighs Gambi as he takes a seat on an old deep freeze. “Metal is better for this than a concrete wall, because it’s got some give, but if you aren’t paying attention, you’re gonna slice yourself open. So go, three rounds.”

Anissa moves to the washing machine and gives the back aluminum panel a solid punch. It tents a little, and Gambi grunts in approval.

“Tear it apart, let’s go.”

_**45 Days to Match** _

“I thought sparring was supposed to be softer. _Trời ơi,_ what’d you do to Malia?”

Anissa hisses when Grace touches her bruised jaw. “Padman brought an eyepatch today. Boxing without depth perception is as difficult as it sounds.”

They’re sitting on the couch in Grace’s living room as the evening light wanes outside. Anissa lifts the bag of frozen cauliflower to her chin when the artist’s hand falls away.

“It’s less painful than it looks. I’ve had way, way worse.”

“Not exactly comforting,” says Grace with a rueful smile.

The fighter’s about to reply when they both notice two eyes peering up at them from the edge of the cushion.

“‘Nissa… why you hurt?” asks Hanh, who’s holding the overstuffed Build-a-Bear panda dressed in boxing shorts and gloves that Anissa had gotten her.

The fighter opens and closes her jaw a few times, staring back at the toddler while warmth rises to her cheeks. “I got an owie at… work.”

“Work.” The last letter is practically spat, and Hanh narrows her eyes, then shuffles away from the couch to her toy chest, gingerly placing the panda next to it while she rifles around the box. Grace and Anissa exchange interested, confused glances as they wait.

When Hanh turns around, she’s holding her “first aid kit”, white plastic with a red cross. She drags it back to the couch and, after agonizing seconds of struggling to pop off the oversized latch, the kit yawns open. There aren’t any real medical supplies in there, of course, but Hanh picks out a comically large, bright purple “bandaid” and holds it up to her mother.

Grace must be too interested to see where this is going, because she doesn’t stop Hanh to make her ask for help before she rips open the package and hands the semi-sticky piece of paper back to the toddler.

“‘Nissa, up?”

The fighter’s heart is tight in her chest. This is more unprompted communication she’s received from Hanh than since they met. Combined. She lifts the toddler into her lap, and Hanh promptly smacks the fake bandage against her bruise with what seems like pro fighter speed and strength. It _stings,_ and Anissa has to bite back a wince as chubby hands grab her face and examine her work.

“Better?”

“So much. Thank you.”

A huge smile breaks across the child’s face, and she looks over her shoulder at Grace. “Okay, now Mommy kiss.”

“Yeah, a kiss to make it better,” agrees Anissa, winking as a chuckling Grace leans over, dutifully planting a quick kiss on the purple decoration.

Seemingly pleased, Hanh wriggles down so she’s facing the television and resting between the two adults to continue watching Paw Patrol. She’s totally oblivious to the ecstatic smiles being exchanged over her head.

_**40 Days to Match** _

To keep her on her toes form-wise, Gambi occasionally calls in a favor and brings her a new sparring partner, regardless of weight class. It’s a little risky, as there’s nothing but her own wits to protect her if one of them decides to take a real shot at her, but so far, all has been well. Her opponents are mostly young guys from the area, fighters born and trained their whole life in New Orleans. She gets used to hearing challenges and trash talk growled at her in Creole, or lilting across the ring with a thick Cajun accent.

Today she’s fighting an amateur named Billy Mowse, who’s got a lot of power, but nowhere near the speed he needs, even as a heavyweight. Punching him feels like whacking a concrete wall, though, and the most entertaining part for Anissa is, the kid talks almost constantly through the bout.

“I’m, like, such a huge fan—“ He sucks in a breath when Anissa gives him an easy pop on the headgear. “—thanks so much for fighting with me.” She next gets him with a pretty good punch in the gut, hoping to knock some of that air out, but he just wheezes, “This is so cool.”

“You’re welcome, now concentrate, and show me what you got, Billiam.”

“Ha! Billiam. That’s a good nickname.” He surges forward, broadcasting right, and Anissa reacts accordingly—but then he _nails her_ on the side of the head with his left, and she curses herself as she staggers out of range. “Got one!” he exclaims, bouncing a little with excitement.

“You deserved that. Don’t get comfortable. That’s when you get wholloped,” yells Gambi, and Anissa can _hear_ him shaking his head. “You’re _always_ at full alert out there, kid. Always.”

_**35 Days to Match** _

“Anissa? Babe?” Grace calls as she sets her keys on the table by the front door of 203. The apartment is ominously quiet, and she’s tensing as she turns on a lamp. Markers, loose paper, and action figures litter the ground, and her worry is about to give way to annoyance as she moves down the hall to the master bedroom, where a sliver of dim light glows from the edges of the door.

The television is quietly playing the new season of She-Ra, and Grace’s misgivings melt away as she spots her missing not-official-girlfriend and daughter on the bed. They’re both still fully dressed—Anissa even has her shoes on—and both snoring softly, with the fighter slightly sitting up against the headboard. Hanh’s spider-monkeyed against her stomach, drooling on Anissa’s Saints hoodie.

The boxer’s eyes flutter open when she turns off the TV, and Anissa sleepily mumbles: “We’re watchin’ that.”

While the fighter’s long lashes dip down again, Grace just smiles and gently lifts Hanh out of her arms. She puts the toddler down, clothes and all, in her new toddler bed, which Anissa had helped her put together over a solid two hours of pressure testing their communication skills. Hanh whines a little, but settles back to sleep after a few minutes of Grace rubbing gentle circles on her pot belly.

There are a fair amount of likely food smudges and ink marks on the toddler’s shirt, but other than that and the living room mess, it appears Anissa and Hanh’s first evening alone with each other went well. Grace had had a meeting with a writer in town, just a few drinks, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity for such a milestone. She and her daughter had been reaching a lot of those lately, like the key she’d quietly slid across the table to the boxer at breakfast a few mornings ago. It was such a rare occurrence of trust on the artist’s part that she’d had to go down to a hardware store to have a new copy made.

When Grace tiptoes back into the bedroom, Anissa’s somehow divested herself of her shoes, now sitting askew at the foot of the bed, and is tucked under the covers with just her headscarf showing. She grumbles when Grace slips in next to her, one strong arm snaking around her waist to drag her closer.

“She wear you out?” teases the artist softly, brushing her knuckles over the boxer’s cheek. She now sees said cheek has developed a handful of discolored, uneven marks that Grace suspects are magic marker.

“Worse than Gambi,” confirms Anissa, without opening her eyes, but she burrows closer, pressing her nose into the base of Grace’s neck.

“Thanks for watching her.”

“Mmm. S’fun.” Despite knowing her arm’s going to hate her for it later, Grace lets Anissa’s head stay there, feels it grow heavy with sleep. It’s only a few more seconds before the snoring resumes from somewhere near her collarbone, and the artist can’t remember what her life was like or how she was living it before Anissa nearly kicked in her door. Grace spreads her hand across the fighter’s back and closes her eyes.

_**30 Days to Match** _

“Anissa, we _talked_ about this.”

“I know, and I said I’m fine.”

“You’ve been pouting for _three days.”_

Anissa looks to the ceiling, trying to quiet the flare of her temper. “Grace, I’m not _pouting._ I’m just sad, I guess.”

“Okay, well, you can always be sad at Gambi’s place so I don’t have to feel like I’m walking on eggshells all night.”

_“You’re_ walking on eggshells? Because I’m pretty sure I was just sitting here, trying to read this trash magazine before you started telling me what a bad mood I’m in.”

Anissa knows she’s being difficult, the truth brimming behind her frustration. They’ve been clench-jawed and snapping at each other for days, over the dumbest things. She _knows_ that. But she’s never had a fight where the relationship didn’t fall apart after—and she’s not sure what to do, really.

They _had_ already talked about this, about Grace not going to London with her. The artist was worried about the cost, but refused to let Anissa and Gambi pay. She was worried about how it would overlap Hanh’s quarterly visit with her dad, but hadn’t asked him if rescheduling was okay, insisting she didn’t want to rock that boat. It felt like there was something Grace wouldn’t say, and it was driving her to agitation to not know how to fix it. She cared less and less about the trip, and more and more about why the artist seemed to be throwing a wall between them over this. Or was she just imagining it all? Overreacting?

“Anissa,” huffs Grace, getting her attention. “I can’t go to London. You said you were okay with it.”

“I know I said that, but… It’s just bothering me.”

“So you _have_ been pouting?”

“Grace, no, I’m just—“

It devolves from there until Anissa’s grabbing her duffel bag and ordering a Lyft to Gambi’s house.

_**27 Days to Match** _

Sometimes, Anissa’s body and mind are raring to go for so long that eventually it’s just her and Gambi in the gym, dark except for a spotlight over the ring where they work. Gambi’s nerve damage in his hands means he’s a barely passable padman and no sparring partner of any quality, but his legs work well enough, and he can still bully her around the ring on occasion.

“The way to get yourself really hurt in this fight is if you let your mind leave the ring,” Gambi is saying, his timbre lower even than usual. “You gotta stay right _here,_ no matter what happens. No matter what she says or any dirty trick. No matter what the crowd’s screamin’ at you.”

Right now, they’re just moving in place, mirroring a side to side, swaying motion with hands up. It’s almost meditative, even though they’re staring straight into each other’s eyes, and Anissa’s sure with startling clarity that she’s ever felt so close to a man in her life. It’s not that she’s ever felt she needed that, with Lynn and Jen in her corner—but the _fatherly_ overtone of her relationship with Peter Gambi is impossible to miss, and the man’s deep history and connection with Black Lightning makes it all the more bittersweet. Gambi is here, and Jefferson is not. The rush of the old wounds it brings to the surface forces her to take a couple deep, steadying breaths.

“I know there’s a lot of extra baggage hanging off you with this. The reputation of women’s boxing. My reputation. Your dad’s legacy. But you can’t take any of that into the ring with you. There’s no room.”

The gentle, synchronized rocking of their heads with his low, rumbling voice is hypnotic; her world boils down to the air in front of her face, separating her from a world champion, and the titan keeps needling at her, testing.

“Jeff Pierce was a lion. Fierce, principled. Cared deeply about his friends, his family, his community. Never threw a dirty punch in his life. But he wasn’t perfect, and he’s not here to defend himself. None of us are perfect, and that’s okay. You’ve got to start forgiving him, for your sake if nothing else.”

Gambi’s irises are ringed with milky blue, and Anissa can’t help but start to wonder what her father might look like today. His hair would probably be a little gray, maybe around the temples. Would he have a beard once he retired from fighting? Would the physical damage of his career weigh heavy on his features, like Gambi? Would he be a smiling, fun grandfatherly type, or stern and strict?

She’s out of her body, just like he warned, and so Gambi whacks her, weakly, with a pad, but it gets the point across. She settles her mind.

“Maybe your life would’ve been different if be was here, but that’s not how things are. _You_ are right here, in this ring with me, bearing his name. And nothing that you do today changes anything about _his_ actions, his choices. _Your_ actions and choices are yours. Your name is your origin, but _you_ decide your destination.”

Anissa easily ducks the next swing of his arm, and they continue their dance.

“You’ve got your mom, your sister, and you’ve got a woman you love. A _kid_ you love. That’s big, and I’ve been there—it can get scary, doing this thing while you’ve got all that love waiting at home. People waiting to see you home safe.”

The fighter isn’t quite ready for this angle of attack. Her imagination reacts vehemently, feeding her visions of Lynn and Jen, being led into a morgue. Grace and Hanh alongside a casket, a mother mourning a love and a daughter that wasn’t old enough to remember her, in the long run. Anissa’s brain kicks out the thought: _They’d be watching me die._ She blinks and gets _whopped_ on the shoulder.

“You’re thinking about all the bad it’d do to your family if you lost your life, and what a waste it would be to lose that life before you have a chance to really build it. That’s why you and me, we’re gonna make sure you _walk_ outta that ring, head held high. I care about your family, and I would do anything to protect you, but I need you to be on that level, too.”

Anissa nods again, getting back into the rhythm of the movement as she files away those nightmares. She snorts out a breath, imagining the anxiety going with it.

“The truth is, I love you, kid, and it’s been one of the best surprises of my life, getting to know you and train with you. You’re one of the most loving, brave, and smart people I’ve ever met. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come, and I know in my heart, Jeff would be _so_ proud of you, to call you his daughter.”

This time, he doesn’t go in for a strike when she freezes; Gambi grabs her around the shoulders and pulls her tight with surprising strength, and she’s got tears running down her face as she stands stiffly for a few moments. Then she hugs the old man back.

“I’m not a mistake,” she murmurs into his shirt, smelling pipe tobacco and sweat. And she believes it.

“You’re not a mistake. People are never mistakes,” he affirms over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s call it a night and grab some food, talk about what’s on your mind.”

_**25 Days to Match** _

It’s an achingly familiar move—Anissa lifts her fist and knocks on the door marked 203, then shoves both hands in her pockets to wait, ears burning as the seconds tick past. Her heart leaps into her throat when she hears footsteps and the lock turning, but it drops to her toes with fear when Grace opens the door.

“Baby, you’ve got a key,” she says with quirked eyebrows.

The soft tone surprises Anissa, and she hesitates, her body tense from the confusion. “Oh… I thought… since we’re fighting…”

“Anissa, get in here,” breathes Grace as she steps back from the doorway. When the fighter shuffles forward, she takes her hand to tug her all the way inside before closing the door.

“Hi ‘Nissa,” chirps Hanh from the living room, where she’s drawing what essentially looks like a tangled ball of yarn on a pad of paper.

“Hey, Hanh,” she greets in as bright of a tone as she can manage, and the toddler goes back to her crayons after flashing a semi-toothy grin.

Grace wraps her up when she turns back, slender arms draping around her waist and pulling gently, until they’re chest to chest, and Anissa buries her nose in the artist’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs into the flannel, heat pricking at her eyes.

Smoothing a palm over the fighter’s braids, Grace kisses her temple. “I’m sorry. I know how much this means to you.”

Anissa gives herself a few indulgent seconds of enjoying the feel of Grace’s breathing, the warmth of her skin, but then she pulls back to properly look in her eyes. “I was definitely pouting.”

“There’s a lot happening right now, for both of us. I know you want me to go, I just… It’s a lot.”

“It’s okay,” says the fighter quietly. “It’s one fight, and it’s a big trip on short notice. I was just feeling sorry for myself.”

Grace nods, chewing her lip. “Just tell me how you’re feeling, next time. _Talk_ to me, even if we’ve already talked about it, okay?”

“Okay.” Anissa shifts her weight, unsure what to do next, but Grace gives her a kiss. “So… we’re still…?”

“Do _you_ want to?”

“Of course…”

“Then, yes.” As if her own words had given the permission, Grace leans in to press their lips together, briefly. “Thank you, for coming over tonight. I’ve missed you.”

The fighter breathes easy for the first time in days, keeping her arm around Grace’s waist as they moved into the living room. Hanh demands that Anissa join in on turning the top piece of paper into wax paper, and Grace sketches little portraits of them with charcoal pencils from the couch.

_**22 Days to Match** _

When the plane lands at Louis Armstrong International Airport, Jennifer Pierce turns her phone back on to a slew of notifications. She skips messages from her friends, gossip updates mostly, and goes straight for one from Anissa: _Hey, I got held up. Grace is going to pick you up from the airport. Safe travels!_

That’s followed by a text from an unknown number that says, _I’m circling curbside pickup in a silver Camry._

Jen lets out a long, low sigh. Her head’s throbbing a little from a long day of travel, and she has to admit it hurts a bit for her sister to skip the pickup when they haven’t seen each other in months.

While trying to distract herself with Instagram, she notices a new photo posted to Anissa’s blue-checkmarked account. It’s of her sister and Grace, which isn’t on its face surprising, but Anissa’s _never_ posted about her relationship online before, and her stans are loving it.

**DreamerNal15:** MOMS!?!

**IrisWesteros:** This is the quality wlw content we deserve

**GrimMinoru:** #goals

Despite her annoyance, Jen has to admit it’s a good picture, taken in a candid moment between the boxer and her girlfriend. Anissa’s sitting on the end of a bench, elbows on knees, while Grace is knelt in front of her, undoing the tape around the fighter’s hand. They’re smiling big, stupid smiles at each other, almost mid-laugh, and the caption says, _“My training schedule has been tough on me and everyone I love. Taking a moment to give thanks for this woman sticking by my side every step of the way and for every moment we get together #thunderwhale2019”_

Jen’s got some strong opinions about ending a caption like that with _that_ hashtag, but otherwise, it’s a surprisingly sweet showing from her usually “tough guy” sister, and it helps put some positive vibes back in her day.

After exiting the secure area with her carry-on and just a few minutes waiting on the curb, a silver Toyota sedan pulls up beside her, and she puts on her best smile. Grace Choi, dressed in a light flannel with cutoff sleeves and jeans, pops out of the driver’s seat sporting a sheepish smile, and they wave awkwardly as they move around to meet at he back of the car.

“Hi! Jen, right?”

“That’s me—and, Grace?”

“Yeah, sorry. Very nice to finally meet you.”

Jen lets the older woman put her suitcase in the trunk, and she notices the famous Hanh passed out in her carseat in the back. “Nice to meet you, too. I’ve heard a lot… and fuckin’ Anissa, making us do it like this, huh?”

The joke seems to put Grace somewhat more at ease, and she’s nodding as they climb into the car. “Sorry, um—I know this sucks. Your sister actually had a surprise drug tester show up, so. Better than a Lyft, I hope?”

“She _did_ warn me that she’d be really busy, but I’m here to check out campus and the town, too, anyway.” Jen sighs, some of her anger deflating. _Fine._ “These boxing people are for real serious then, huh?”

“World championship is on the line,” confirms the older woman with a helpless shrug.

Once they’re on the road, Jen tries and fails not to steal glances at **The** Grace, who Anissa talks about like the woman hung the moon and saved the polar bears. The artist is certainly attractive, more so even than the photos suggest, and the kid snoozing in the backseat is as cute as promised, but Jen’s in sister mode (and a bit agitated in general). She takes the few minutes of silence to plan her next move.

“So…” she begins after clearing her throat. “How long have you lived in New Orleans?”

“Since I was about four, maybe five. My parents moved out here when my dad lost his job in Houston.”

“A Texan.” Jen’s nodding and trying to look nonchalant, even though Grace is focused on the road. “‘Nissa says you do comic books?”

“Can confirm. I’ve got an exclusive deal with DC right now.”

They’re pulling off the highway now, and Jen peers out the window as the city begins to unfold, all bright colors and French architecture and mossy trees. “Favorite movie?”

Grace chuckles, and she glances at the younger woman curiously when they arrive at a stop light. “Lion King, the original.”

Jen has to admit the woman has a dazzling smile. She presses on: “Thoughts on Ariana Grande?”

“Who?”

She says it with such perfect timing and deadpan tone that Jen’s immediately laughing, and she pencils in some points for Grace Choi. “Cool, now we know each other, so can I ask you a personal question? In exchange, you can ask one about me.”

The light turns green, and Grace is looking at the road again, but she still gives an amused sort of shrug, saying something about sisters under her breath before, “Sure. Hit me.”

“What are your intentions, with Anissa?”

Thankfully, the car doesn’t jerk, but Jen can see the way the question lands hard in the artist’s widened eyes, her knuckles lightening to white on the steering wheel as her jaw works.

“And before you answer, I should disclaim that I’m only asking as her sister that loves her very much, not her spy. Get what I mean?”

Grace clears her throat and nods, but she’s still silent for a few seconds. “I, um…”

Jen’s having a tiny flare of regret as she has the fleeting thought that she might be messing something up for said sister, but if just asking the question could have that effect, then Grace isn’t right for her, anyway, right? So she waits with a neutral expression until the artist speaks again.

They come to another red light, and Grace turns to look her in the eye as she says, “Anissa’s an incredible person. She’s great with Hanh, and she’s got the worst lines I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, there is _no_ lie in that last one.”

“And I’m not saying there’s a ‘but’ about how I feel, _but…”_ Grace sighs. “The boxing is a little scary.”

Jen hums in agreement. “Our mom and I _still_ aren’t past that, but once Anissa wants to do something, there’s very few things short of getting knocked unconscious that can stop her. In high school, she once chased a football player across the field and gave him two black eyes for calling her the f-word.”

“That sounds like Anissa,” agrees the artist, somewhat nervously. “Big on instant justice.”

“Right, and from someone’s who there with you: For _me,_ it’s a worry I’m always gonna have. And what happened to our dad hangs over this family every day, but since I can’t stop her, I make sure I appreciate our time together, and we make as much time for each other as we can, present situation not counted. Anissa’s gotta do her thing, you know?”

The younger woman watches as Grace processes through this, her jaw clenching and relaxing. “I like that. And I like your sister, too. I keep waiting for her to realize she’s dating a mere mortal, but I think Hanh has her hooked.”

Jen feels like they’ve reached at least a common ground, so she hazards to press, “You… _like_ her, or maybe _like_ -like her?”

Grace doesn’t hesitate before answering, “It’s all still kinda new, you know, and we’ve both got a lot going on. My intention is to keep seeing where this goes, but between you and me, I... I’ve never felt about anyone like I feel about Anissa.”

_Okay, fine._ Jen mentally removes the contingencies surrounding her assessment of Grace Choi, who’s looking embarrassed, but sounds earnest. She feels a giddy sort of empathy for her older sister, and lets Grace off the hook as she says, “Good. So then, what’s your question? Make it count.”

The light turns green, and Grace relaxes, hemming and hawing for half a block. “I hope this doesn’t ruin the moment we have going on here, but I just have to ask…”

“Say it. I bet I know already.”

“Wellll, your dad died before your sister was born…”

“Mhmm.”

“But you’re six, seven years _younger_ than her…”

“First of all, I was right—everyone asks that once they do the math, trust me.”

Grace shrugs again, looking a bit sheepish.

“Second of all, my dad was a professional boxer. He and Mom stored their _stuff_ for safekeeping and whatever, because Mom said she wouldn’t have kids with him until he retired. Then, after he was gone, I guess the lab called up one day and said it was all going to expire, and my mom… had me. Immaculate conception style.”

“Thank you, I’m sorry—was that too much?”

“Nah, it’s all good. Seriously. I’m a labgrown child of a celebrity, I have a pretty thick skin. And I admire your balls to open with that question.”

Hanh makes a bubbly noise from the backseat, but her eyes are slipping closed again when Jen turns to look. She’s a chunky thing, dressed in a tiny blue dress embroidered with sunflowers, one shoe somehow missing. _Oh, shit. Can I say balls around a baby?_

_**21 Days to Match** _

Even though Anissa doesn’t take off extra time from her training regimen for her sister’s visit, the fighter spends every other available moment with an only mildly annoyed Jen. The first night, she’d taken her down to Bourbon Street for a “don’t tell mom” sisters’ night, and the next morning they got beignets after running five miles together through the city, dodging tourists, hustlers, cars, and horse-drawn carriages as they went.

While Jen hits up the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas, Anissa goes back to work with an extra spring in her jab. Having her sister in New Orleans for the first time was almost surreal, and seeing her get along with Grace? Just another worry off her back. Anissa’s choosing not to be annoyed about Hanh taking a shine to Jen _immediately,_ but secretly, she attributes that to their somewhat similar personalities: small and slightly prickly, but ultimately sweet.

Anissa’s working a speedbag, mostly daydreaming about her future champ belt, when she hears that Jen’s back, and her sister and Malia start getting into one of the fight night prep TDL items: her walk-on music. The production company handling the broadcast had given Team Pierce a somewhat eye-popping budget for copyright and effects, but that drama isn’t necessarily Anissa’s area of expertise. Jen had rolled her eyes nearly all the way around when the fighter confessed that all she had come up with was a single sticky note that just said _Kendrick?_

While she sips water during a break, Anissa watches Jen scroll through Spotify on her laptop.

“Lizzo?” offers Malia.

“Oooh, I mean…” Anissa raises her eyebrows. “That would slap.”

Jen looks at the ceiling, then shakes her head. She clicks over to a playlist and points. “Nah. Save that queen for your like, ongoing vibe, but this is your presentation to the world—gotta be a _different_ queen.”

The track name makes Anissa’s stomach clench. “You don’t mean… No. What if I get embarrassed? I’d be tarnishing _her_ legacy.”

“Well, you’d be ‘tarnishing’ some others’, too, so,” mutters her younger sister, but then she breaks into a chuckle when Anissa gives her a soft thump on the shoulder with her glove. “I’m serious Anissa, do you see these lyrics? It’s right there, you just gotta go for it, sis.”

Malia glances at the screen again, and her eyes widen, but so does her smile. “What, you don’t have the balls for it, wodie?”

Her sparring partner knows her too well, and so does Jen, because she’s already smirking through a victory. “Okay, fine. We’ll talk to the event people about getting the rights.” Like Lightning, Anissa gets an idea that makes goosebumps rise on her skin. She looks at Malia. “Didn’t you say your husband…?”

A knowing look spreads over the older fighter’s face. “Has a marching band? Yeah.”

_**20 Days to Match** _

Since it’s her alma mater, Grace offers to take Jen on a tour of Tulane’s lush green campus, a mix of modern architecture and the classic New Orleans French. Because it’s so close to the gym, Anissa schedules to meet with them after the tour to practice with the Green Waves’ track and field team so the younger Pierce can check out the program up close.

“I put in an application when Anissa moved down here. Don’t tell her that though,” says the teen with icy seriousness.

“I would never.” Grace holds up both hands, palms out, as they walk. She’s got a pretty good idea where to find the fighter as they approach one side of the track, and she’s proven right as they walk up on a dense group of (mostly) female runners, with Anissa standing in the middle of them, joking and answering questions like she’s holding court.

When they stop by the edge of the crowd, a young man with close-clipped hair turns to look at them, and Grace _sees_ his mouth go dry when his eyes set on Jen’s face. He looks away quickly, but keeps peeking back, and Grace has to resist the instinct to roll her eyes as his hands start twisting nervously together.

The next time he looks over, she catches his eye and greets cheerily, “Hi!”

“Hello, m-ma’am,” he replies with a quick nod of his head, now dutifully avoiding looking anywhere near Jen. “Can I help you find anyone?”

The soft, bashful _‘ma’am’_ has the artist immediately deciding to continue helping the kid. “We’re just visiting. I’m Grace, and this is Anissa’s sister, Jen Pierce—she’s checking out your team?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah. Nice to meet you both. I’m Khalil. Khalil Payne, freshman.” Finally, the young man smiles, and the artist is preemptively giving herself a pat on the back.

She sees Jen notice the kid, her eyes doing a clear double take, and a slow smile spreads across the senior’s face as she extends a manicured hand. “Hi. Looks like my sister’s ruining your practice.”

“Yeah, don’t… We’re usually, you know, all business,” coughs Khalil, returning the grin in a smaller, more nervous fashion and shaking her hand. “If that’s the kinda team you want, I mean.”

“Maybe. Tell me more—you’re still new, so you’re the best person to ask, right?”

Quietly, Grace dips out of the conversation as they get going, and then Anissa finally spots her, breaking off mid-sentence to dart through the students.

“Hey, babe,” greets the boxer as she gives her a dutiful hug and a kiss on the cheek. She introduces Grace to the team, and this seems to be enough to break the spell: The woman who must be the captain starts giving out instructions, drills and targets, and the team disperses to their assignments.

Up close, Anissa’s black lycra shorts and top, practically painted on, are _very_ distracting, but Grace registers the fighter’s expressing gratitude for her help escorting Jen around the city. Eventually, after her eyes have made a full inspection of the fighter several times, she manages to get herself under control enough to tune back in to the actual words coming out of her girlfriend’s mouth.

“...and then a grizzly bear man ate all the cake—“

“What?” Grace blinks, trying to rewind to how they go here, but all she recalls is Anissa’s thighs in stretched fabric, and the boxer’s just chuckling at her.

“So you _weren’t_ listening to me?”

“I was…” The artist can’t even finish the assertion, and she feels heat rise to her cheeks as she clears her throat. “Sorry, your outfit is um… Yep.”

Anissa’s smile takes on a mischievous tilt, but she starts slowly backing towards the track. “My, my, my… how the tables _turn.”_

Because Anissa is Anissa, the fighter _actually_ turns on the last word, and because Anissa is Anissa, the endearing cheesiness of it all is completely eclipsed by the view of her jogging away in those shorts…

“Uh, Grace?”

The artist nearly startles at Jen’s voice right next to her.

“You got a little, I think—“ Jen is completely straightfaced as she gestures to her own mouth, miming a clear reference to drool.

“Wow, o-o-okay, I don’t think I _like_ having _two_ of you around. Don’t you have some running in circles to do?”

“You _love_ us,” teases the young trackstar before jogging away, with a grinning Khalil alongside her.

_**18 Days to Match** _

“I don’t know…”

“Problem?”

“Maybe this was a bad idea…”

Hanging by her hooked knee, Grace chuckles and slides a few more feet down her pole, until her head is hovering just a couple inches from the padded floor. “You let Gambi make you beat up old machinery, and _this_ is where you draw the line?”

Gulping, Anissa tears her eyes away from the artist to the class instructor, who’s helping another beginner with some form tips. The woman, in her forties, joins them next, nodding to Grace before turning to the fighter. “You’re gonna have some burns, but it’s an excellent workout.”

“I know ma’am, and thank you for letting me join your class—I’m just a little… Dropping on my head is bad, y’know.”

The instructor laughs, gesturing to a free practice pole. “Grace has been doing this for years. Let’s just keep you upright for today.”

While Anissa leans the proper baseball hold and how to leverage her bulky weight properly, Grace hovers and lazily circles her pole, winking at the fighter every now and then. By the time they leave, Anissa’s got a solid grasp of the fireman spin, and her shoulders ache.

“Thanks for humoring me,” laughs Grace as they head out to her car.

“Humoring you? That workout kicked my ass, damn.”

“Yeah, you remember that, big bad boxer.” The artist slips into the driver’s seat and pauses for so long with her hand on the key that Anissa stops scrolling through her messages and looks up. Grace is just gazing at her, eyes curled with warmth, and she almost feels self-conscious under those intense, dark brown eyes.

“What?” she asks, and it seems to shake the artist out of her trance.

“I, um… I wanted to tell you, I called Hanh’s dad and moved her trip, so… I can come to London with you.”

Anissa’s already leaning over to kiss her, one hand landing on her knee and squeezing. “You didn’t have to do that—”

“I know. But I realized… I want to. It’s important to me, to be there with you. I was just… holding onto my old habits.”

They make it home and relieve Malia of babysitting duty. Once the toddler’s asleep, Grace gives Anissa a private lesson on her practice pole.

**_14 Days to Match_ **

Aside from the obvious occurrences when they’re teasing each other, there are moments, quiet ones mostly, where Grace finds herself staring at Anissa and completely confused about what she was doing before that. She’s looked down and found random lines through her sketches, magazines twisted to an unrecognizable shape in her fingers, cups overflowing with water.

Anissa is beautiful, of course. That’s an objective descriptor. Warm, rich brown skin, a jawline that could cut glass (and take a serious punch). The curve of her cheekbones, the _perfect_ smile, every version of it, whether Anissa’s smirking over winning a hand of cards or, Grace’s personal favorite, the one Anissa flashes when she walks into a room after they haven’t seen each other for a day or two.

There’s also the muscles, obviously. Grace is only human, after all, and Anissa is basically a godlet. At first, she thought she might get self-conscious, but she quickly learns that it’s Anissa who’s constantly murmuring affirmations and praise about Grace when they’re together. There’s the corny, complimentary lines that light up her day better than surprise flowers, but also things whispered reverently in the dark against her skin. Grace expects to get tired of it, or that the words will start to sound fake. _They have to,_ she’d reasoned. Wrong again.

Because Anissa is also, and this is where Grace starts to feel like the boxer might _actually_ be a superhuman, a deeply _good_ person. Not like a saint—Grace isn’t _that_ far gone—but kind and bold, disciplined, intelligent… somehow dweeby at times. She finds herself struck by lightning in the middle of songs, ones that she _thought_ she understood, until she’s delivered a hard right hook in the gut while belting out _The Girl_ by City and Colour as she cleans the house one day: _“Please know that I’m yours to keep, my beautiful girl.”_

_Oh._ The burning warmth in her stomach had left her helplessly staring at the wall, Swiffer wand resting on the bookshelf, heart banging around in her ribcage, until her phone rang to break the spell.

Today, Anissa is on the evening news, working out and answering questions from the local stations. The boxer is certainly not a fan of cameras, and her awkward squirming during the interview portions are endlessly endearing, but she still has a commanding presence onscreen.

At least, _Grace_ can’t keep her eyes off of her, her hands idly picking up and putting down blocks as she sits with Hanh on the floor and watches the broadcast.

“Do you feel ready to live up to your father’s legacy?” asks a young, ginger reporter, his forehead shining around his foundation; it must be hot in the gym.

There are a couple tense seconds as Anissa seems to consider her answer, but when she looks up, she’s all confidence and vinegar: “My father’s legacy is much bigger than me. There are schools named after him out in California, movies telling his life story. This is my journey, and while I can’t deny the name has weight, I’m ready to show everyone that _I’m_ what’s next, no matter what name you wanna call me.”

Blinking as if nervous, the interviewer forges on: “We also collected viewer questions to ask you, and overwhelmingly, the most common one was: Are you single? Seems like from some social media posts we’ve seen that that’s a no, but inquiring minds have Tweeted for confirmation.”

Anissa huffs out a wry chuckle, the one that ends in a sort of wheezing sigh, and puts gloved hands on hips as she rocks back and forth on her feet. “Well, I’m not gonna talk a lot about that, because my privacy is very important to me. I’m a proud, lesbian-identified black woman, and that part of it isn’t any kind of secret, but otherwise my business is my business. I will say that I am, uh, not single.”

The interviewer presses: “So we’re not gonna find out who the lucky woman from the pictures is?”

“Like I said, I do value some privacy, and I value hers, too. I’m very much happy, and sorry folks, but that’s all I’ll say about that.”

Her stomach’s fluttering with an unfamiliar, intense feeling, both warm and prickly. Grace suddenly feels weird for watching this, but not enough to change the channel as she just turns her full attention back to Hanh, who’s providing very serious instructions on how she wants her mother to stack her blocks. The distraction helps settle her belly, and Grace is so focused on getting four cubes to balance in a single column that she doesn’t notice Hanh has stopped talking, until she hears her speak again, in a higher and louder pitch than before:

“‘Nissa?” Grace raises her head to see her toddler looking at the TV, brows furrowed. She gets up and waddles closer to it, then turns to look at her mother. “‘Nissa.”

“Yeah, that’s Anissa. She’s on TV.”

Hanh’s frown deepens, and she looks at the front door, and then the TV, and then Grace. “‘Nissa not here.”

“Nope. Anissa’s not here.”

The toddler lets out a miniature sigh, more of a huff like the one they’d just heard on the newscast, and throws herself on her mom’s legs, pouting up a storm as Grace rubs her back.

“I know, kid. I know. Same.”

_**10 Days to Match** _

In an interview Anissa knows by heart, Jefferson Pierce had been asked about his plans for the future, once he retired from the fight.

He’s still youngish in the video, grinning a megawatt smile at the interviewer as he considers his answer. _“I’d love to open a school one day, in Freeland, where I was born. A school where greatness is assumed of everyone.”_

The interviewer almost, but doesn’t quite, scoff. _“A boxer opening a school, Pierce?”_

Jefferson springs what might’ve been a trap, and his voice rumbles in a way that forces you to focus a little harder on his words than normal: _“Boxing is not, in itself, an honorable profession, but for some of us, it’s what we love. It’s what we’re great at doing, for whatever cosmic reason. There are also plenty of people who like to watch our stars rise and fall. But no matter what you do, whether you’re a teacher or a doctor or an athlete, you can live your life with integrity, do what you do with honor, and you can stand tall for your fellow human.”_

Anissa closes her laptop and leans back where she’s sitting straddling a bench in the gym locker room. It smells like sweat and bleach and old equipment, with exposed plumbing hissing and rattling near the ceiling corners. When she finally gets up and peers out the door to see the herds of school-age children hanging around the gym, she wonders how many fellow boxers, professional and amatuer, she might able to convince to offer free boxing lessons and exercise programs after school.

_**7 Days to Match** _

Anissa’s walking into the gym, waving politely to her team and chatting with Grace about dinner plans. The team’s planning a big, well-wishes family dinner (in which, ironically, everyone _except_ the fighter will get to enjoy the food) at Quang’s house, and she’s trying not to think of it as a “goodbye.” Whale’s people had been amping up their trash talk in the media over the last few days, setting the stage for her reputation to hit rock bottom if all the “Fake Lightning” chatter was proven right in the fight.

“Did you know Malia is a pescatarian?” Grace is asking as the sound of papers shuffling fills the background of the call.

“I did… not,” admits the fighter, distractedly. She opens her locker and holds the phone between her ear and shoulder as she pulls clothes and towels from her gym bag. “She’ll have a great time at Quang’s, then.”

“We’ll just make things pork _or_ shrimp where we can, instead of _and,”_ the artist goes on, also sounding a bit like she’s not paying full attention. “Stitch is gluten free, too…”

There’s a beat where they’re just silently doing their own thing on the phone together, Anissa pulling off her leggings and Grace scratching pen against paper. The fighter almost forgets the call entirely before she nearly drops her phone while leaning over to get her hightops. “Okay, well… thanks for helping Gambi with that. I gotta change and get to it, babe.”

Grace chuckles softly. “Mm… have you been taking off your clothes during this conversation?”

“Only a little.” Anissa’s actually in the middle of putting on her socks, but the playful bounce to Grace’s voice still makes her smile.

“Shame we didn’t FaceTime. I’ll let you go. See you tonight?”

“Of course. Love you,” she says without thinking, and then freezes, phone still pressed to her shoulder as she resists the urge to throw it. _Shitshitshit._

But there’s only a small pause before Grace replies, “Love you, too.”

The call ends, and Anissa spends several seconds breathing slowly to avoid panicking. Boxing. Hitting things. She needs to do _that._

Gambi’s beside himself with agitation at her for being distracted all day, but no matter her affection for her team, she can’t bring herself to discuss it with them, a mix of embarrassment and intrigue ruling her mind throughout training. Grace had said _it_ back, so that was good, right? But weren’t you supposed to make a big deal out of these things, like over a romantic dinner? She hadn’t even been _looking_ at Grace when she said it. The worries went on.

By the time she’s unlocking the door to 203 and stepping inside that evening, every speech she’s rehearsed burns up to smoke in her mind. Grace is just sitting on the couch, Hanh fast asleep on her lap.

“Hey, babe,” greets the artist, careful not to jostle the toddler as she waves. When Anissa hesitates, Grace pats the couch next to her until the fighter stiffly moves to sit down. “Everything okay? Do you… wanna talk about what happened earlier?”

It’s a sweet mercy the artist brings it up herself immediately, but Anissa’s chest is tight with nerves, and her traitorous brain gives a last ditch effort to delay, “What… earlier… happening?”

Grace laughs, and Anissa feels her ears grow warm. “Don’t be like that. What are you worried about? Here, I’ll start: I love you.”

Hearing it in person is a thousand times better than over the phone, especially with the way the artist is grinning at her, a little nervous, but mostly amused. The fighter’s mouth is suddenly dry as she replies, “So we just… We say it, now? You’re not mad that I just, blurted it over the phone?” At Grace’s incredulous expression, she quickly rambles on, “I’m new to this. I guess I don’t want it to sound trivial, or like I didn’t mean to?”

“I do appreciate that clarification, actually,” says the artist, and she leans over to give Anissa a kiss at the corner of her lips. “But of course I’m not _mad,_ babe. I’ve wanted to tell you that for weeks, but… I think I just kept building it up too much. Scared you might think my mysterious demeanor has been just a show.”

The fighter finally relaxes at the look in Grace’s eyes as much as the words, and she leans her head against the artist’s shoulder, gently brushing a hand down Hanh’s back. The toddler’s squirming a little, like she always does before she wakes up, and Anissa knows she’s only got seconds to do what needs to be done. “When my brain just threw it out there, it’s like my subconscious totally expected you to say it back. Sounds conceited or whatever, maybe.”

“No…” Grace rests her head against Anissa’s, pulling a knitted blanket from the back of couch over their shoulders. “Since I was too chicken, I figured I’d do my best to _show_ you until you picked up on the clues.”

Anissa gazes up at the silhouette of the woman she _loves,_ and there’s a part of her that whispers paranoid things, about how maybe Grace is mistaken, maybe there’s something she’s not seeing about why loving Anissa isn’t _really_ how she feels, and—

“Anissa?”

The fighter gathers herself again, breathing out a long, low breath, imagining those bad thoughts going with them, and she brushes Grace’s hair out of her face as the artist peers down at her. “Hmm?”

“Will you say it again?”

Anissa’s fighting heat pulling at her eyes as she replies, “I love you, Grace.”

_**4 Days to Match** _

_LONDON, ENGLAND_

After a sniffly goodbye to Hanh, who’s traveling the opposite direction as them with her _Cậu_ Quang, Anissa and Grace head through a whirlwind of travel with the rest of the team. They have to make it to New York first, which requires a layover in Chicago, and then there’s a long, long direct flight to their final destination. Louisiana is farther from home than Anissa’s ever been, but as she looks out the window over endless blue ocean, she hopes Stephanie-whatever-her-name knows how far that scrawny Washington kid has come.

They’re exhausted when they land, but Anissa and Malia still drag everyone but Padman out to explore, taking group selfies in front of the House of Parliament and on the London Bridge.

After an early dinner at a nearby pub and running a few miles on the hotel treadmill, Anissa spends too many hours laying awake, simultaneously wired and running on E, while Grace sleeps like a baby, curled against her side.

_**2 Days to Match** _

There’s a lot of press, and a lot of working out, of course. The air here is different in almost indescribable ways, but she’s thankful to have spent so much time becoming immune to the muggy Louisiana heat. It makes the cool, dreary smog of London fee almost like relief in comparison. On the flip side, the food has definitely messed with her stomach, and she’s sure she’ll walk straight from the fight to a random country and start a new life if the bout gets ruined because of indigestion.

Worse than anything, though, is her nerves. They’re fraying, breaking her concentration down to pebbles, and all the pep talks in the world from Gambi and Malia aren’t helping. Jen had flown in that morning, and seeing her helped, but her anxiety was threatening to spill over into a panic—literally.

She’s standing in the hotel bathroom with both hands pressed against the ancient sink, eyes glued to the drain. “ _Do you feel ready to live up to your father’s legacy?”_

_No._ She’s all in with this, like her life savings are dependent on the next card to flip. They kind of are, technically speaking. An embarrassment in this fight is an embarrassment on the international stage, and the Internet age will never let her forget. The drama of her name will mean no one would ever take her seriously again.

“Anissa?”

The fighter startles, sucking in a breath as she comes crashing back to her body. “Hey, sorry… I zoned out.”

“What’s wrong?”

Once she’s moderately sure she’s not actively having a heart attack, Anissa slumps against her girlfriend, who makes a small, surprised huff before hugging her shoulders tightly. “I hate waiting. I’d rather run to Germany and back than all this _waiting.”_

“I know, I’m sorry,” singsongs the artist against her temple. “Anything I can do?”

With heat rising in her cheeks, Anissa tenses before she can stop her turbocharged mind from taking off with that thought, and to her relief, Grace starts chuckling as she pulls back from the hug only enough to shift into a kiss. Before long, it’s not enough to push against each other near the sink, and the fighter lifts her easily, never losing the connection of their mouths. Grace’s legs automatically wrap around her waist in a familiar embrace, and Anissa walks them down the short hall to the bedroom carefully, deftly stepping over discarded clothes, and then Grace’s back is hitting the white hotel comforter.

There’s something desperate lurking between them tonight, not from neglect, but a looming, lurking danger. Grace has been less vocal about those anxieties than Jen or Lynn ever were, but Anissa sees the worry settle over the artist’s brow more and more often as the day draws closer. Still, she doesn’t want to make promises she can’t keep, knows Grace wouldn’t appreciate those anyway.

So she loses herself in the moment, letting the other stuff melt away as she pulls at clothes and runs her fingers along warm skin. Grace seems to always know how to make that easier, anyway. She pushes up with her palm on the fighter’s chest until they roll, and then she’s pressing herself over Anissa, slowly taking her apart with an artist’s deft hands.

_**Bout Day** _

Anissa’s awake at 5:00 a.m. on the dot. She sits up in her darkened hotel room, Grace’s arm sliding down her stomach to her lap. The artist murmurs something and rolls over as Anissa shoves her feet into the hotel slippers and rolls to standing.

A few floors down, she runs, and she shadow boxes in the hotel gym. She’s practically doing interval sprints up and down the hallway when Gambi finally comes out of his room, looking awake, but hazy. He has enough wits about him to talk and drill her through the next few hours, keeping a steady pace and energy about their work. Her left deltoid on her is twitching strangely, and they go to Stitch for help working it loose as soon as she’s awake.

When Gambi reaches the point that he’s legitimately worried she’ll damage her performance later, he forces her away from the gym equipment to one side of the small room and leads her through several breathing exercises, until the twitch in her arms settles. He has her close her eyes and lets the silence linger, interrupted only occasionally by passersby in the hall.

Eventually, he asks in a low, steady tone: “Inside, you know Whale?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s she fight?”

“She likes to feint right, because her left’s just as strong. Her vertical movement’s terrible, and if she hooks me with a clean shot, I’m hitting the canvas.”

“Inside, you know yourself?”

While mentally cataloguing every body part, every bone and muscle, from her toes up, Anissa takes in a deep, slow breath through her nose, exhaling just as slowly through her mouth. Her uppercut is her weakest punch and her cross, the best. She steps left too much when she gets tired.

“Yeah. I do.”

“You’ve never been this far away from home before, but that doesn’t matter. You’ve never been in front of this many people before, but that doesn’t matter. That’s all noise. What matters is what you leave in that ring. What’re you leaving in the ring?”

“Nothing.”

“What’re you leaving the ring with?”

“Pride.”

“That’s right. You’re ready for this.”

The ride to the venue feels like a dream. There’s press along a rope line to photograph every frame of her walk from their rental car to the locker room entrances. Pictures and videos quickly posted online show her in black from head to toe, with a hoodie, skinny jeans, and Jordans, but it’s not long later that she’s changed into a black sports bra and her new bout shorts, the same yellow, black, and purple, except embroidered with the word PIERCE in gold.

Jen, Grace and the rest of the team arrive later, mostly sitting around the locker room talking while the hours tick by and the boxer paces, until it’s not hours, but _minutes_ before the match. Anissa runs combos with Padman, talks through the strategy for the eight thousandth time with Malia. Grace gives her another kiss for good luck, and then the referee is shaking her hand to talk rules. The sound of the audience outside has been steadily rising, and they’ve reached a faraway, constant roar in the locker room.

With gloves and yellow robe on, she’s standing in the darkened exit tunnel, waiting for the cue to go. As the challenger, she’ll be out first. Team Pierce came prepared to fight on this front, too.

The music from the speakers cuts out, and Anissa’s heart is going to jump out of her throat as she stands in the loneliness of the dark hallway to the arena. Her team is silent behind her. She sees brass glinting in front, heads beginning to bob.

The spotlight hits her team’s tunnel as the band hits the first notes of Beyoncé’s “Freedom”, and the drumline dances out of their tunnel, followed by the brass band musicians, golden instruments glinting in the stadium lights. They’re all wearing black, purple, and yellow Team Thunder uniforms, with the song’s vocals coming over the speakers.

_“Trynna rain on the thunder, tell the storm I’m new…”_

There’s a long second where Anissa regrets whatever version of herself thought she could possibly deserve to walk out to this, but then the familiar melody lands in her veins, and she’s moving forward, emerging from darkness to lights so bright, she can feel the temperature tick up against her skin. She knows most of the crowd is booing the visiting interloper, but she’s encased in the thrumming vibrations of the instruments, flashes of color and movement that may not be of her childhood roots, but pay tribute to the city that changed her life. It’s protective, but it’s also a challenge, because she can’t imagine a universe in which she’ll do anything other than make them proud of her, too.

Then she’s stepping through the ropes and into the ring while fifty thousand audience members roar, camera flashes coming from all sides. Below, the musicians split to circle the ring, and then join back together to exit down another aisle as the song fades.

_“What you want from me? Is it truth you seek? Oh father can you hear me?”_

Anissa’s hopping around the ring, keeping warm, when the lights fall again, and a very different beat rumbles through the speakers. It’s “Pac Told Me” by R. Mean, and Anissa has to concede that it’s a clever choice. She watches as the Champion’s side lights up with fire, _literal fire,_ and any concern that her entrance procession had been too much dissipates. The firebreather puffs three more bursts of flame, and then the whole entrance to the tunnel fills with fog, glowing purple and blue.

Tori’s hulking silhouette appears out of the cloud first, hood up, and then Tobias’, shorter and stouter, alongside. No less than two dozen people wearing Team Whale jackets march behind them. Some are holding up the Champion’s belts, as if the sight of Tori Whale alone isn’t enough to remind her of the gravity of the opponent she faces.

**TORI “KILLER” WHALE | 36-0**

**30 WINS BY KNOCKOUT**

**WELTERWEIGHT WORLD TITLE HOLDER**

**2016 OLYMPIC GOLD**

**#1 POUND FOR POUND FEMALE BOXER IN THE WORLD**

It takes forever for them to slow-motion walk their whole contingent up to the ring, so Anissa finds Grace in the first row, just behind the Pierce corner of the ring. Her girlfriend looks pale, but she’s smiling as she meets Anissa’s gaze. She and Jen are holding hands tightly, and her little sister gives her a sharp nod before the fighter turns to face her opponent.

 

* * *

 

_HBOSports Special Broadcast: Whale v Pierce_

_10:03 p.m. BST, Live from London, England_

_Welterweight World Title Match_

**“Welcome to HBO Boxing’s special edition broadcast: Anissa ‘Thunder’ Pierce challenging world champion Tori ‘Killer’ Whale. It’s not often that you see a sitting title holder agree to fight a young upstart this early in their career, but as we know—tonight is just as much about boxing as it is about history, about blood. Katie, what chance do you think the young Pierce has?”**

**“Well, Peter, she’s got** **_the_ ** **name, that’s why she’s here tonight. She’s got the TKO Tailor in her corner—but none of that’s going to do her any good tonight if** **_she_ ** **can’t box. Given Gambi’s history with champions, I’m inclined to believe it, but he’s never trained a female fighter before.”**

**“The boxers came out of their tunnels with a particular flair tonight, so to speak, and it all just adds to the drama that’s turned this into the fight of the year, I think.** **_If_ ** **Pierce is able to put up a fight.”**

**“They knew they needed to bring their best for hopefully a massive amount of new viewers tonight. It’s about time, because these incredible athletes work just as hard, and they punch just as hard, as the men do.”**

**“And there’s the first bell. The fight is underway.”**

They start the match pawing at each other, exchanging heated taunts. Tori’s long jab keeps Anissa mostly at bay, but the young fighter also manages to avoid any landing on her own head. They’re moving _a lot,_ and Anissa knows she’s letting her nerves make her too jumpy, too quick to back off. Tori drives the point home by making faces and mocking her, doing a jig between lunges.

“You gonna hit me or what, Princess?” she barks around her mouthguard. “New nickname’s cute. You ain’t nothing but noise.”

Anissa dodges a combo and tries for a hook, but Tori is too fast—she ducks as she’s delivering two body blows, and then cuts up into the younger boxer’s cheek. First blood. The crowd roars in approval, and Anissa backpedals quickly to avoid further punishment.

**“Pierce backing off. She went for her first big shot of the night and got punished for it. You can see it in their faces, their body language—Whale is way more at ease, more confident,** **_she’s_ ** **setting the pace of this match.”**

Anissa gets out of trouble against the ropes, and she’s moving forward when she finally lands a clean shot on Killer Whale’s chin. She sees the champion blink, and then a disconcerting smile spreads across her mouthguard. That’s all the warning Anissa has before she’s getting attacked full throttle for the first combo of the match, and she realizes with alarming certainty that she’s never taken a harder punch in her life.

“Light her up!” Tobias is screaming as his sister bullies Anissa back into the ropes, and the younger boxer pulls the champion against her to stop the onslaught.

As the ref is separating them, Tori pops Anissa’s chinwith an illegal jab, and she gets a verbal warning while Gambi’s losing his mind nearby.

**“Looks like Pierce kind of woke Whale up with that hit, and now she’s being punished for it.”**

**“Whale’s just dominating this fight right now, look at that, body blow after body blow, I don’t know if Pierce makes it to the end of this round.”**

Each punch is hissing air out of Anissa’s mouth, but she’s trying to protect her head. Her torso can take it. Tori drives her backward from the corner, not even needing footwork to get out of it, and slams one glove into her stomach, then brings up the other in a clean uppercut.

Anissa briefly feels weightless, and then she’s dropping straight down to her knees on the mat. She doesn’t lose consciousness, but for a full second, she’s unable to control her legs, and the crowd jeers. Luckily, she’s back to her feet by the four-count, and the ref resumes action after six.

Tori _runs_ at her when the official moves, and Anissa takes three final punches to the face and body—plus a fourth after the bell that has Gambi shouting at the ref while a vein nearly pops out of his neck. The final shot splits open her right eyebrow.

“Real for you now, Princess?” snarls Tori as she walks back to her corner. “Stay down next time.”

**“Wow Peter, I have to say, Thunder is obviously either out of her league or off her game. That was a** **_brutal_ ** **round. Thirty more seconds, and Pierce would have been done.”**

**“Thirty more seconds?** **_Ten_ ** **more, and I think the contender hits the canvas for the count.”**

Anissa’s gasping lungfuls of stinging cold air when she sits on her corner stool, and her mouthpiece comes out dripping in blood already.

“Don’t get rattled, kid,” Gambi says as he kneels in front of her, in a tone that Lynn would describe as _serious as sin_. “You keep making mistakes like that, and they’re gonna have to pick you up with a vacuum cleaner. Look at me, talk to me.”

“She’s unreal. Videos don’t even come close.”

“She’s the champ, remember? You’ve got a taste of what you’re _really_ up against now, so let’s refocus on your strategy. She’s gonna throw the right, and when she leaves it out there, come up with your right hook, smash her. Body blows. Don’t worry about her face until she brings it down to you. Look at me, kid: what’re we leaving in the ring?”

“Nothing,” she pants, and then her mouthpiece goes back in.

**“That’s the bell for the second round and hopefully, legendary boxer and trainer Peter Gambi has a miracle speech in his pocket tonight. Killer Whale’s looking calm and cool again as she meets Pierce in the center of the ring. Can’t imagine her strategy’s going to change much.”**

**“The strategy of straight up throttling the contender? Yeah, she’s gonna stick with that.”**

Tori messes with her for a minute or two, and Anissa bides her time, settles her nerves. The Killer Whale gets her into a corner, and Anissa ties her up again to get out of it, and then they’re finally boxing. It’s not quite trading blows, not yet, but working combos and lots of movement. The young boxer can tell Tori’s ramping up the pressure, and she takes a couple good ones to the chin.

Her moment comes late in the round when she ducks Tori’s right hook, pushing closer to the older boxer’s body, and comes up for one of her own. The solid connection against Tori’s ribcage sends energy crackling down her arm, and it shoots to her stomach like a shot of pure adrenaline as the sound of the audience surges. The hit seems to startle the champion _just_ enough that Anissa has the opening to end it with a clean left to the cheek.

“Boom!” screams Malia.

“How’s that noise feel?” snarls Anissa as she jerks back out of range. “You bleed just like me, huh Champ?”

**“That’s a couple solid shots by Pierce, she has drawn blood on the champion, and this match is taking off. They’re slugging it out now, punch for punch, and the young contender is taking these hits like a true pro.”**

“Quit messing around!” yells Tobias. “Put her to sleep!”

The bell rings, and Anissa’s feeling much better as she heads to her corner, even if she’s bleeding more.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” says Gambi. “Whale knows you’re for real now. You’ve woken the sleeping giant, and she’s gonna come after you with everything she’s got. Don’t get comfortable, or it’s lights out, but I know you’ve got this. People doubted you, but they don’t know what you’ve been through. They don’t know what’s in your heart, kid.”

“Let’s do this,” she pants before her mouthguard goes back between her teeth.

**“Start of round three, and it’s a very different situation from the last one. That was a** **_very_ ** **important, confidence-boosting performance for Pierce, and she’s coming out hot.”**

**“Most people thought this was going to be a mismatch, and you could still make that argument, but that round showed us Pierce isn’t going to be a pushover at the very least.”**

The fight’s looking less worrying than the first round, with Anissa and Tori Whale both wearing their serious faces, too focused for much shit talk now.

Still, Grace’s stomach clenches when the bell to end the third round rings. Whale had taken up the last five seconds of it with brutal blows to Anissa’s head. She can see a fair amount of blood on her girlfriend’s cheek and reminds herself over rising nausea that some of it is just spread around from getting on Whale’s gloves.

But Anissa’s swaying ominously as she turns from her opponent, and to Grace’s horror, she walks vacantly towards an empty corner before the ref redirects her to the proper one, where her team is waiting. Anissa doesn’t sit so much as fall onto her stool, and then the boxer’s obscured by her team. It makes the artist’s skin crawl, and all she wants to do is run to the corner to see her.

“Is she okay?” asks Jen, haltingly.

They’re holding hands tightly, have been since the first bell, and if her adrenaline wasn’t so elevated, it might hurt. “Gambi’s got her. He’ll call it off if she’s not.”

“I don’t know how much of this I can watch. How many more of these?”

“Nine.”

**“Folks, I’m being told there’s some Internet buzz starting up about this match. If you’re just joining us, welcome to Whale versus Pierce, a World Championship Title Bout. Katie, bring us up to speed?”**

**“I don’t know how else to say it, Peter. We’re witnessing action most boxing fans only dream about: the outgoing, but reigning world champion going blow for blow, round after round, with a contender that has everything to prove.”**

The fourth and fifth rounds are, first and foremost, bloody. Anissa sees the geyser of spit and blood when she gets Tori with a particularly perfect cross. She tastes the iron and copper in her mouth when the Champ dishes it right back. They’re almost flat-footed, nearly stationary in the ring, because it’s all blocks and blows.

Heading into the sixth, Anissa’s struggling. When she happens to glance down at her spit bucket, it’s a deep, scarlet red. Everything above her waist aches, and it feels like she’s getting hit with a metal bat every time her ribs take more punishment, but they’re only _halfway_ through this. She sees herself on the huge stadium screen and regrets looking; there’s blood leaking from her brow, bottom lip, and nose.

Stitch uses a towel-sized wipe to clean her face leading up to the seventh round.

Gambi helps hold her water bottle as he tries to draw out her second wind. “Remember what we talked about? Stay in that ring. You’re wearing her down. She doesn’t know why you’re still going. She’s gonna get frustrated, and that’s when she’s gonna start making mistakes. We know she’s a hothead. Keep working at it. _Stay_ in the ring.”

**“This is certainly already a match to remember, and Anissa Pierce has done more than enough to prove that she’s a special fighter in her own right, but I gotta tell you Peter, she’s just not looking like a match for the world champ.”**

Her world drills down to the ring. There’s no lights, no audience, not even their trainers. Just the Killer Whale, covered in sweat and blood, punishing Anissa for every hesitation and mistake. It’s like her body’s on emergency reserves, critical systems functioning only. She hasn’t hit the mat since the first round, but that’s a very real possibility at this point.

Tori smirks and gestures to her chin. Anissa doesn’t take that bait, but just being smart, precise, and powerful just isn't enough anymore. To her dawning terror, she’s giving it _everything_ she’s got, but Whale just keeps coming, keeps brushing off her jabs and blocking her strikes. Keeps punishing the younger boxer with a one-two counter. It’s not Whale's footwork so much as the force of each punch landing on Anissa’s body that drives her backwards until she’s touching the ropes, and the bell saves her. Anissa lolls against the edge for a few seconds, head spinning as she slowly rights herself.

The only silver lining is, she can feet Whale’s left weakening.

Gambi looks like he’s about to pass out, but his voice remains steady: “This is it, kid. I feel it in my bones. You still have four rounds to show ‘em your stuff. Shorten that jab, shorten the distance, get underneath her, and rip her.”

**“The betting pools are starting to fall apart as we head into the eighth round.”**

**“Most experts said this match would be long over by now, but here we have Pierce with a hard right, Pierce, assertively taking over, but there’s a hard counter from Whale, and Pierce is getting pushed back in the corner. Just when you think the contender is taking control, the champion nearly knocks her out—and on we go.”**

It’s painstaking, literally. Anissa knows her strategy has boiled down to ‘absorb as much of the older boxer’s energy as she can physically handle’ through rounds nine and ten, but it’s _working,_ because no one has ever survived this many direct hits from Tori Whale before. The champion’s getting increasingly tense, showing signs of sluggishness, and her punches swing more and more wild. Her eyes take on a frenzied tilt.

“Get under her!” yells Gambi, his voice raw.

Anissa ducks two swipes, slides her foot forward, and surges into an uppercut that has the champion _staggering_ when the bell rings. It’s one punch, but it’s a proper shot across the bow. She’s still in this, full throttle.

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about!” Padman’s shouting from the corner as she returns.

**“Well, I’ll tell ya Katie, even the most forgiving commentators pre-match are scratching their heads right now, wondering how this kid is still standing, much less coming back into this fight with a vengeance. That last punch almost took the champion to the floor.”**

**“Pierce may be hurting, but with two rounds left, I’ll tell ya—we have** **_never_ ** **seen anyone cut up Killer Whale’s face like it is right now. This is an unbelievable performance from the young fighter.”**

Grace has sat through enough televised and YouTube fights narrated by her girlfriend to follow boxing, like understanding why they grab each other for what, for all intents and purposes, looks like a somewhat aggressive hug. She can usually figure out who’s doing better overall for a “points” win, but the chaos factor of boxing means sometimes the stars align, a butterfly flaps its wings, and the better boxer goes down under a punch in the right spot, at the right time.

She recognizes that she’s watching Anissa take control, but it doesn’t resolve the knot in her gut. She can see the changing tides in the way the taller boxer is taking steps back now, keeps running herself into the ropes even as she occasionally lands a counter-attack on Anissa that, by sound alone, makes Grace nearly squeeze her eyes shut.

But she also sees the other shoe when it drops. She’s nowhere near experienced enough to describe the play by play, but she knows she has a fleeting thought that Anissa’s landed an unusually long string of punches. Like a snake waiting to strike, Tori hits back at the end of a combo. Grace watches the champion’s arm lurch in time with Anissa’s head snapping to one side—and then she _hears_ it, the wood-cracking, fluid spattering blow that sends Anissa crumpling to the floor, legs and arms tangled in a way that leaves no question: she’s _out._ Grace’s chest seems to crack along with her.

“Get up, Anissa, get up!” Jen’s screaming, and Grace has just enough sense about her to hold onto the teenager’s hand before she rushes the ring. “Oh my God, is she—is she okay? _Anissa!”_

**“Whale is up on the corner ropes, cheering an apparent victory, and Pierce looks to be** **_completely_ ** **unconscious. I’m not seeing even a twitch, Peter.”**

**“The match doctor is hovering on the side there, just in case. That was a pretty bad fall, she looked like a ragdoll.”**

Later, Anissa doesn’t remember the cross that drops her. It looks spectacular from the footage, perfect form in a perfect window, but as far as Anissa _experiences—_ she sees Whale duck her hook, then her vision bursts into bright white, and the an endless blackness. She doesn’t even remember the fall itself.

According to timestamps, she is unconscious for 5.4 seconds.

While the punch never comes back, some days later, when her body and brain have had the space to heal, she’ll vaguely remember that she didn’t dream, not really. It’s more like her life flashes before her eyes, bits and pieces of a childhood started with love and marred by tragedy, her mother smiling at her from the driver’s seat of her Corolla.

A kind-eyed stranger appearing out of thin air, summoned as if by prayer, with a way out of the subsequent darkness. _“Anissa, I would like very much if you would come and stay with me.”_

An old man with nothing to gain, taking a chance on a hotheaded kid. _“You’re gonna get the shit knocked out of you, but you’re gonna get up, keep going.”_

The door to apartment 203 shutting in her face. A golden hand taking hers on a busy street. Alligators moving through still water, a napkin pressed to the corner of her mouth. A warm body curled against her side in the dim of morning. _“Here, I’ll start: I love you—_ Anissa _,_ you’ve gotta get up, babe!”

That last part, she realizes in the moment, she’s _actually_ hearing as she hurtles back to consciousness.

Anissa is already pushing herself up as her eyes open, gulping lungfuls of air, and when the ref says “six”, she’s on her feet. Her left eye is almost completely overtaken by red shadow, but she keeps her head steady as the official dusts her gloves and asks if she’s all right. He rules that she’s beaten the count.

**“Whale still thinks she’s celebrating a victory, but Thunder just got up off the mat like a woman** **_possessed._ ** **The ref’s called her up, Tori’s back in her stance, and just a couple more punches—there’s the bell. Pierce’s team has done a great job with her right eye, but now that left eye looks dangerously close to swollen shut.”**

With her background, Anissa knows exactly how bad this injury is. The swelling is applying pressure to her eye that could mean permanent damage. An occipital fracture could kill her, if Tori landed the right punch to drive the broken bone fragments into her brain.

When Stitch applies a hyper-cold metal press to the inflamed skin, Anissa nearly bites through her tongue.

“Don’t feel anything free floating,” the older woman says as she gently palpates around the press. “Small graces.”

Gambi looks pale as he peers over Stitch’s shoulder. “I’m stopping this. I should’ve stopped the match for your dad, and I’m stopping this one now.”

“No! Unc, no—let me finish,” gasps the fighter, meeting his gaze with her one good eye. “One more round. I can do it. Let me. I’m not Jefferson.”

“You don’t have anything to prove,” he sighs, and she realizes the towel is already in his hand.

“I know, so please just let me do this, Gambi. People have told me about what I _can’t_ do my whole life, but we trust each other, right? I can _do_ this.”

Before Gambi can answer, the ref’s called a timeout so the match doctor can examine her eye. If it’s completely shut, the rules automatically end the match—precisely to protect boxers injured this badly.

“Hello Anissa, let me see that eye,” the British doctor is saying. When he puts a paddle over her good eye, the world goes dark. “How many fingers am I holding up? How many, Anissa?”

Stitch has her palm wrapped around the back of the fighter’s neck, a towel obscuring her hand, and she taps Anissa’s skin four times.

This is the moment when it becomes her choice. If she says she can’t see it, that’s the match. That’s probably the smart thing to do… but she’s so, so close. Tori had wobbled back to her corner this last time. She _wants_ it.

“Four.”

“Okay, how about now?”

_Tap-tap._ “Two.”

“All right then, you’re good.”

The ref calls for time to restart, and Gambi grabs hold of her shoulders. “Are you sure, kid?”

“I’m sure. We’re gonna do this, Gambi. I’ve got her.”

Gambi glances out to the crowd over Anissa’s shoulder when they hear Grace and Jen shouting. It’s taking four burly security guards to keep them back from the ring.

“She’s okay!” the trainer yells out to them, and Anissa hears one of the guards make a pained noise. “Hey, leave ‘em alone, they’re just worried.”

“I’m cool, I’m cool, you stepped in the way of my foot,” growls Jen.

Anissa has to smile at that, and just the act of doing it breathes new life into her exhausted body. She gets up for the final round.

**“Pierce has been cleared to fight, and both boxers are** **_struggling_ ** **as they head to the center of the ring.”**

**“Honestly, if either one of these fighters lands a big one on the other, it could be the end.”**

It’s brawling, plain and simple. Anissa’s acting on instinct alone, conserving the energy from her brain to channel straight to her fists. Tori’s swings are wild, brutal things, and even though she takes some hits that are near enough to bring her down, Anissa stays in it.

There’s a shift somewhere in the final minute of the match. Anissa realizes that she’s backing Tori into the corner, literally, and the champion’s eyes are wild. She curls her arms over her chest, desperate to protect herself, and Anissa lets loose.

**“The contender’s** **_unleashing_ ** **on the champion, throwing body shots like she’s Peter Gambi, striking upstairs like she’s Black Lightning. Whale swings, misses, and here comes the Thunder in the closing seconds of the fight.”**

Anissa’s final punch makes Tori’s head snap to the side like it never has before. The champion spins, bounces on the ropes, and drops flat on her back. The audience lets out a collective, horrified _ooh,_ and Anissa staggers back.

**“Whale is down—that is the first time in her** **_career_ ** **she has been on the canvas. You cannot be saved by the bell in the 12th and final round. Will she beat the clock?”**

There are nine seconds left in the count. There are eight seconds left in the round.

People are screaming from all sides as Anissa watches, frozen, while Tori Whale slowly, but surely, pulls herself up the ropes.

“...three…”

“Get up Tori, for the love of God, _get up!”_

“Stay down! _Stay! Down!”_

“...four…”

The Killer Whale is on her knees and lifting to one foot.

“...five, six…”

She’s on two feet. Anissa marshals every electron left in her body; it feels like she might start burning up her organs for the strength to lift her hands to her face.

“...seven. Look at me, are you okay? She’s up!”

The bell rings a second later, and Killer Whale has survived the match—but so has Thunder.

Anissa collapses against Gambi’s shoulder as soon as he’s through the ropes. People are rushing the ring, the roar of it tinny and muffled in her punchdrunk brain.

**_“What_ ** **a finish—if that round goes another ten, twenty seconds? We might have a new champion on our hands. Nobody, except maybe Pierce’s family and friends, thought that we’d get the fight of the decade here tonight.”**

She sees Grace coming this time and pushes off Gambi to accept a firm hug, a rush of emotion tugging at her eyes as she buries her nose in the artist’s hair, with Grace murmuring “I love you”s near her ear.

When they part, Jen slides in for her own hug, tears streaming down her face, and she says, “You almost gave me a heart attack. But I fucking love you.”

The match official announces it’s a split decision for Tori Whale. She’ll end her career 37-0, still the undefeated world champion, technically. The loss is bitter in Anissa’s mouth, but she was _so close,_ and then she hears a rising chant from the audience that has goosebumps rising on her skin.

_“Pierce! Pierce! Pierce!”_

When Tori approaches, she’s actually got a smile on her face, pained and tense, but a smile nonetheless. She leans in close to say, “That was the best fight I’ve ever had, period. You’re the future of this sport, Pierce. I couldn’t be prouder to have this chance before I go away.”

“Thank you. Respect. Keep safe,” pants Anissa, and they nod to each other before the Killer Whale walks away with her entourage.

**“Everyone is on their feet in the stadium right now, nobody wants to leave—they know they’ve just witnessed something special. Black Lightning may be gone, but now we know for certain that his fighter’s soul lives on in the woman we call Thunder."**

 

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

_NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA_

With summer winding down, the air’s still hot, but forgivingly so, and the team’s out at Hansen Sno-Bliz, leaning on the hoods of their cars and chatting while eating giant cups of multicolored shaved ice and ice cream.

The hullabaloo about the Whale fight has more or less died down, for which Anissa’s grateful, but offers for more matchups are already rolling in to the gym office, as well as some enticing sponsorship pitches. Nothing that’ll buy her a vacation home in Bali, but enough for the life she wants in the bayou.

Jen’s attending Tulane in the fall on a track scholarship, which is an interesting choice, but she trusts when her baby sister says it’s because of the academics and city, with the bonus of being close to Anissa, and not just for the (admittedly polite and responsible) young man she’d met on her first visit, Khalil. They’re already making jokes about moving Lynn down, too.

Gambi’s talking to Padman nearby, and Malia is quizzing Quang on Olympic track and field superstars behind them while Stitch pours a little Fireball over her bliz. And then there’s Grace and Hanh, who’ve carved out and filled a new space in her life that she hadn’t even know was empty. The toddler’s sitting on the curb between parked cars, haphazardly digging around in her kid-sized treat with a plastic spoon, and Grace is sitting on the hood of Gambi’s car next to her, as they share a big kid cup.

There’s something hanging heavy in her chest as she watches Grace laugh at something Padman shouts to them. The artist’s smile makes her think of beaches and white tulle and bright flowers. Dancing under a spotlight together. These were never things she used to think about, just a year ago, but now she can’t remember how she spent her mornings, days, or nights without her little family unit. She might’ve even thought it sounded stupid at the time… but here she is, with a diaper bag by her foot and a woman’s hand on her shoulder where a chip used to be.

When Grace turns her dark eyes back to the fighter, her eyebrows quirk up in question. “You okay? Anissa? Anybody home?”

Anissa blinks twice, and the words tumble out of her mouth like reflex, “Will you marry me?”

There’s a small, surprised squeak, and Grace almost drops their cup, but she’s smiling brightly when she meets Anissa’s eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious,” laughs the boxer, trying to look affronted.

_“Really_ serious?”

“On my mothers, I would never joke about this. Not with you.”

The artist yanks her in hard for a kiss, frozen fingers wrapping around the side of her neck. When Grace pulls away, she says hoarsely, “Yes. Of course I’ll marry you.”

Anissa’s about to lean in to kiss her again, but an ominous _plop_ from their feet catches her attention. Hanh’s snow cone is upside down in the dirty street, and there’s already tears welling up in the toddler’s eyes.

“Okay, okay,” says the fighter, quickly scooping up the pouting Hanh. “You want to get another one?”

Hanh vehemently agrees, tiny arms crossed in a classic Grace move, but as Anissa carries her through the small crowds enjoying the sunshine and shaved ice, she throws them around the fighter’s neck and buries her face in her shoulder with a moody huff. There’s a second line somewhere nearby, jazz notes lifting into the air, and Anissa Washington feels like she’s finally found her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still with me?? thanks for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on tumblr [@trashyeggroll](https://trashyeggroll.tumblr.com/)


End file.
